


philtatos

by lydjah



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon-typical references to abuse, F/M, M/M, Pining, References to Drugs, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, it's about the hands, it's about the yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-01-05 14:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21210095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lydjah/pseuds/lydjah
Summary: Helping Jean Moreau heal is a game Jeremy Knox feels the stakes are too high to even consider the thought of losing. Jean’s first game as a Trojan against Edgar Allan feels like even higher stakes. Falling in love with Moreau - well, those are the highest stakes of all.“You are his Achilles’ heel,” Laila whispers, in the dark, and her words bleed straight into the empty places in Jeremy’s heart.





	1. we were like gods

When Jeremy was sixteen, his high school best friend accidentally overdosed at a party. It was a situation that had gotten out of control; a bad batch of the same stupid party drugs Daniel did every weekend back in the day. Jeremy had been beyond scared, and could still very clearly remember sticking his fingers down Daniel’s throat to make him bring whatever he had taken back up, and the retching as they waited for an ambulance. He remembered the shivering, and the bass of the music inside the house continuing to pound in time with his heart, and the disbelief that people’s lives could just _continue_ around him while his was collapsing. He himself had never touched the stuff and never would, and it was easily one of the worst memories of his young life. By contrast, his new roommate had spent his sixteenth birthday in the hands of a sadistic egomaniac, enduring actual, _literal_ torture. Jeremy grimaces at the thought; maybe his own sixteenth year hadn’t been so bad after all.

Still, Jean’s harrowing past doesn’t make him any easier to love in the beginning, even for Jeremy, who’s never met a human, animal or inanimate object he didn’t want to talk to. (According to Alvarez). Jean is prickly at best, and vicious at worst, his exquisitely crafted features - all French fine angles and starlight skin beneath compelling grey eyes - are able to convey the deepest contempt with a mere lift of a dark brow, or jut of his angular jaw, and his prettily-accented words drip with poison as he tries to keep Jeremy from getting close to him. At first, it’s disconcerting and Jeremy feels deeply hurt that Jean won’t accept his kindness. Why the hell doesn’t this long-abused and affection-starved man want friendship when it’s finally offered? But as Jeremy spends time in Jean’s company and starts to notice things - like the way Jean’s eyes almost never leave him, as if he’s watching for danger, and the things Jean screams in his nightmares - the realisation clicks into place, that it’s really _not_ Jeremy. Jean has every right to be as gun shy as he is, and for some reason that Jeremy hasn’t quite figured out yet, he wants to be the shield Jean needs and give him what he requires to heal.

Even after two weeks with the Foxes, Jean comes to USC, to Jeremy, in a horrific state. His hair is shorter than Jeremy has ever seen it at Edgar Allan versus USC games, but the healing, raw patches on his scalp where Riko ripped it from his head are still evident. He has a crescent moon of stitches that curve almost lovingly around the stark, black three that adorns his cheekbone. He is black and blue from head to toe, his pale skin a canvas of brutality of the kind that Jeremy has never seen before. Three nights in, Jean spikes a blazing temperature; his head is warm and his skin is soaked, his eyes dart behind blue-veined eyelids and his cheeks flush with marrow-deep sickness, and he calls Jeremy’s name until the fever breaks - the first time he speaks aloud since arriving in California.

Jeremy is surprised by this turn, but then again, he supposes there’s nothing like holding a cold face cloth to your new roommates’ forehead for three days to bring you closer.

* * *

At the start, Jeremy could see how torn Jean was; he didn’t want to warm to Jeremy, to let him in, to give him the opportunity to hurt Jean the way so many before had. And yet, keeping Jeremy away warred with his ingrained Raven ideology of being a pair. And so often, he followed Jeremy around, but with a look on his face that was some cross between mistrust and exasperation. Jeremy is concerned at first, but then he speaks to Kevin and he finds his mind much more at ease after the call. He’s played with Kevin, the first time they both made Court together, and he trusts him - even if he is a prickly bastard. Plus, Kevin is the only person Jeremy has regular contact with who has some idea of how harrowing Evermore was for Jean. Kevin doesn’t say as much, but Jeremy can tell he’s glad for some news of Jean. He’s not sure what it will take for Jean and Kevin to mend that bridge, if it even can be, but he’s quietly hopeful.

And, if Jeremy’s being honest with himself, he kind of likes Jean’s company. Even if he is sullen and silent so very much of the time, sometimes he cannot bite back his acerbic wit and dark humour, and when Jeremy laughs in response to his comments, he swears he sees a hint of a smile at the corners of Jean’s grey eyes, even if none appears on his mouth.

Jeremy takes an approach like Jean is newly arrived on some kind of exchange. He orients him to the best coffee shops, where to get groceries, his favourite running tracks, the cinema, and so many other places in those early days before the team comes back for the new semester and Jean starts his formal counselling. Jean takes it all in with what Jeremy interprets as a stoic, impassive kind of wonder. He is regularly surprised by the knowledge of his new freedom, and is slow to take to it at first.

At Jeremy’s favourite coffee shop, the pretty, soft-looking girl behind the counter turns into a blushing mess under Jean’s intent gaze. He never says any more words than he absolutely needs to, but he might as well have proposed marriage for the way she looks up at him. Jeremy can’t blame her, he thinks mildly. Jean is several inches over six-foot, his shoulders broad and his chest like a wall. He’s a true backliner, every line of him strong, and imposing, occupying space.

She brings their coffees to their table; Jeremy’s dish has a teaspoon and a small biscuit balanced on it, Jean’s a slip of paper with her phone number.

Jeremy looks at Jean over the rim of his cup, as Jean fingers the piece of paper and one dark brow rises slowly. He meets Jeremy’s gaze, almost like a challenge, and when they leave, Jean leaves the number on the table with a generous tip.

* * *

“Jesus, fuck, you’re tall.” Alvarez looks up at Jean, who towers over her, and probably has a good fifty pounds of pure muscle on her too. She presses a hand to her heart dramatically.

Jean’s eyes track lazily down to the gold crucifix that rests in the hollow of her throat. “I tend to have that effect on Christians.”

Alvarez grins, and sticks her hand out, which Jean pointedly ignores. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe of his and Jeremy’s room, arms folded across his chest. Jeremy and Laila wait, breath bated, in the little kitchenette, watching the exchange. Laila had politely introduced herself to Jean, and then retreated to Jeremy’s side, much more conscious of not overwhelming Jean than Alvarez was. Or perhaps, Sara simply doesn’t care. Jeremy thinks it is probably the latter.

Alvarez’s eyes travel Jean’s bare arms, littered with scars. She lingers on the ‘three’ on his cheekbone, and the crescent-moon scar that curves around it. Jean stares her down, unwavering.

Jean is unashamed of anything, Jeremy has quickly discovered. He’s aggressively unashamed of his scars, and equally aggressively unashamed of the personality that was forged in the fire of his upbringing. Jean is a survivor, but he was a dissonant before that, before Riko carved and sliced and beat and tattooed that instinct right down into the heart of Jean, where the fire only just barely survived going out. As the team gets to know him, he doesn’t back down from anything, and he’s blunt and honest to the point of being rude often. Most of the Trojans think it’s great.

Alvarez, bravely – or maybe stupidly, Jeremy thinks – prises one of Jean’s arms from his chest and holds it out to the side. Jean must be in a good mood, to allow it.

Alvarez looks over her shoulder at Jeremy and Laila incredulously, still holding Jean by the wrist. “Look at this _wingspan_!” she says to them. “We are going to fuck some strikers _up_ this year!”

“How eloquent,” Jean says dryly, and Laila stifles a giggle against Jeremy’s shoulder.

* * *

Their first practice with Jean on the team is…interesting. Jean is fierce, and no less prodigiously talented for having nearly died earlier in the summer. He’s also brutally candid, and not afraid to hand out advice on the court when he sees things, which when compared to Jeremy’s style of constructive critiques, and positive encouragement and feedback, is definitely different than what the Trojans are used to.

“Can’t decide if I hate him, or want to be him,” says Caro, the junior backliner, to Jeremy. They watch Jean stretch for a blindingly quick return from Laila. He barely even extends to the full potential of his reach. Jeremy can’t wait to see him in full flight, in Trojan red-and-gold instead of Raven black-and-red.

“He’s a handy pick up,” Jeremy says mildly.

“Handy? Fucking _handy?”_ Caro chokes on his own saliva. “We are going to win a championship on his back.”

“Maybe so,” Jeremy says, smiling. Across the court, Jean body-checks McKenzie hard, and barely legally.

Privately, Jeremy thinks there’s work to do – but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t agree with Caro.

* * *

They have some really bad days though; days where Jean’s anger breaks like a tidal wave over Jeremy, over the team. These are the days when they see some of what lies beneath with Jean; the fight that he buried long ago in order to just survive Riko, and the trauma of what was done to him. Jean is a river, calm-looking and impenetrable on the surface, but swirling, raging, eddying beneath, and Jeremy finds it hard to believe Jean hasn’t drowned yet sometimes. He thinks that’s probably a testament to Jean’s quiet bravery, but he’d outright deny that if Jeremy ever said it.

For the most part, the Trojans let it happen - because they know it needs to - and move on with a gentle reminder that he’s still safe, and they are still here for him. Jean can be cruel and horribly standoffish when he’s having a bad day, but as Alvarez says in the beginning, “He’s a fucking good player. Doesn’t have to be the nicest bloke going around, he just has to help us win games.”

It’s not smooth sailing, and Jeremy doubts it ever will be, but Jean starts coming to Jeremy at least. It’s never with an outward, ‘_Today is bad, I need help,’_ but with small acts of entreaty; sitting down near enough to Jeremy that he could touch him if he wanted, or a brief touch to the inside of Jeremy’s wrist, or his shoulder.

It’s one such bad day, when Jean and Jeremy lay in their beds, both exhausted from practice but unable to sleep, that Jean starts what will become a habit for them that Jeremy privately refers to as ‘revelations in the dark.’ Jeremy is sprawled on his stomach, with one arm up under his pillow and his head turned to the side, watching Jean in the gloom. He’s become very watchful, he thinks idly, his eyes seeking Jean always in rooms, at practices, everywhere they go. He’s attuned to the slope of Jean’s broad shoulders - are they tense? Relaxed? - and to the slant of his brows and the rhythm of his breathing, and his sense of how okay, or _not_, Jean is. Jean is currently decidedly _not_ okay; his chest is tense as he breathes.

Jean is on his back, his right arm flung across forehead and his left leg bent at the knee. He’s awake, Jeremy can tell by his breathing, and something in the air feels like he’s stewing on something.

“I’m sorry about training today,” Jean says eventually. Jeremy feels his own brow lift; Jean has never apologised before, for anything. The incident in question wasn’t even that bad; a tactical discussion between backliners had turned heated, but Alvarez had called to Jeremy for his opinion as captain, and as Jeremy had started towards the group, Jean had gone paler than death and flinched away. At spying the devastated look on Jeremy’s face, he had then turned on his heels and ran. He’d already been back in their room by the time Jeremy wrapped up practice and got rid of everyone for the evening.

“‘S’okay,” Jeremy says, keeping his tone gentle. It’s not okay, he thinks, it’s so unfair that Jean has to live with everything he does – that for even a second, he expected a berating, beating. But Jean doesn’t want pity. “My priority is you, not making sure my training plans are followed one hundred percent to the letter.”

Jean makes a quiet noise of derision in the darkness and Jeremy smiles, because yeah, okay, _maybe_ Jeremy is also a bit obsessed with winning the championship this year. But he also isn’t lying. He’s not a therapist or anything, but somehow he and Jean are kind of working, and it’s become very important to Jeremy that Jean stops just surviving and starts flourishing. He can’t really tell if Jean actually likes him or not, but he thinks maybe he respects him a bit and that’s a good enough start for Jeremy.

“Once,” Jean starts again, and Jeremy suddenly feels every nerve in his body stand to attention at the tone of Jean’s voice. “I kept messing a drill up – in fact, it was pretty close to the drill we were doing today actually.”

Jean pauses, and Jeremy thinks on that for a moment, before his voice, deep and dark even by the standards of a Raven, resumes again. “We’d been at it for hours, and I was so tired that I didn’t even scream when _he_ started breaking my fingers in punishment. Except that meant it wasn’t entertaining enough, I guess. So he made me break my own.”

Jeremy sucks in a breath, and he feels genuinely nauseous. Jean’s expression on the court today now makes sense. “I would never-” he begins, but Jean cuts him off with a clipped, “Of course not.”

Jeremy stays quiet, because Jean’s tone isn’t dismissive because he doesn’t believe Jeremy. It’s because he does.

* * *

The more the team trains together in the lead up to the season, the more Jean slots into the fabric of them. Caro doesn’t even seem bothered about losing his starting position to Jean – rather he shadows him eagerly, peppering Jean with an average of ninety-three Exy tactics and strategy questions per practice. Laila and Jeremy had done the maths once.

It’s a huge relief to Jeremy, who had been most concerned about the impact Jean’s recruitment was going to have on his defensive unit. Jean was born to play Exy – his racquet is like an extension of his arms, he seems to know where the ball is going even before it’s moving, and he is not satisfied unless he has stopped every single offensive play and drive. Jean is silk, elegant skill and impossible natural talent, and it’s an excellent foil to Alvarez’s explosive power and dogged defensive style.

Jeremy and the other strikers test him every day. They press, and prod, and throw themselves against Jean like he’s a wall, and they find that there’s no gaps to be exploited. Jean doesn’t have a weakness as a player – that was why he was marked with the perfect court’s number three, Jeremy thinks, as Jean flings a ridiculous shot on goal from half-court which slams home beneath Laila’s outstretched arm. The goal lights up red.

Jeremy eventually scores on Jean, after weeks of grinding, and he breaks out into the biggest smile he’s ever felt on his own face. Sweat is dripping down the back of his neck, and his forehead, so much so that he doesn’t know where he stops and the salt starts.

“Why are you smiling?” Jean asks him, leaning on his racquet. He looks mildly incredulous, and nowhere near as ragged as Jeremy feels. “One goal in two and a half weeks is not something to be proud of.”

The Raven words often come without Jean censoring them, but the thing about Jeremy is he doesn’t take it personally. For every rude, condescending word that comes out of Jean’s mouth, Jeremy sees something good happen. Like the way Jean patiently explains how to set an effective zone defence to Alvarez and Caro and the defensive dealers. Or when he shows McKenzie, who is a lick over five-and-a-half feet tall, how to use her speed and agility to turn big-bodied backliners inside-out.

Jeremy pulls his helmet off and grins even wider at Jean, if possible. “You’re the best there is though. If I can score on you, even once, I can score on anyone.”

Jean rolls his eyes so hard that they’d probably get stuck that way if the wind changed. “You’re just so obnoxiously positive, aren’t you Knox? And you genuinely mean it.” Jean’s expression suggests disgust, but the corners of his eyes crinkle with something kind of like amusement.

* * *

Jeremy is always the last to leave training, later even than Rhemann, because he always cleans up the cones and balls and various other assorted equipment the team uses. Sometimes Jean waits for him, and sometimes he goes back to the dorms with Sara and Laila. Jeremy doesn’t mind either way – he likes Jean’s company, but he also feels a fierce pang of pride every time he thinks of Jean bonding with the girls and the rest of the team.

It’s two days before their first game of the season, and Jeremy whistles low between his teeth as he dumps the bag of balls into one of the metal equipment lockers that line the locker room. His brain registers the sound of a shower on in the boys’ room, but he thinks nothing of it.

Jeremy flings his towel over his shoulder and makes for the bathroom door, at the same time as it flings open and he nearly runs headlong into the expanse of Jean’s chest.

Jean’s right eyebrow – the more expressive of the pair – rises slowly, as Jeremy stares blankly. Jean is still dripping wet from his shower, a towel slung low around his hips, and Jeremy notes with interest the cluster of freckles across his chest and south of his collarbones that looks remarkably like the Southern Cross constellation. Jeremy feels a curious flush rising up his neck.

“You waited for me?” he manages to choke out, voice desert-dry.

“Are we not going to dinner?” Jean asks, his accent lilting around the words, teasing.

Of course. They’d made pizza plans days ago. Carb-loading, an essential process for athletes in the forty-eight hours before a game. “Ye- yeah. I better shower first though.”

Jean angles himself just enough to open a gap in the doorway that Jeremy can slip through, and it’s a close fit. Jeremy hears Jean huff a laugh behind him as he hustles for the shower stalls, and he swallows heavily, heart inexplicably pounding.


	2. at the dawning

“Come _onnnnnn_,” Alvarez wheedles, twining herself around Laila like a slinky cat. “I wanna _dance_ and I wanna drink a lot of wine and I wanna-”

“Shh, baby,” Laila says, with a heavy dose of loving exasperation. She covers Sara’s mouth with her hand, her eyes still transfixed on the movie playing on the TV. A moment later, she lets out a yelp and withdraws her hand quickly, shooting her girlfriend a reproachful look.

Jean slides them an irritated glance from his position stretched out on the floor. Jeremy suppresses a laugh from the opposite couch. Sara wants to go out after their first game – she claims it’s like a ‘Welcome to USC’ thing for Jean, but in reality, Alvarez just likes to party.

“Don’t you want to celebrate when we get our first win?” Sara asks Jean, leaning over him. Jeremy, who has given up all pretense of watching the movie – because the game of when-will-Jean-snap is _far_ more entertaining – grins openly. He’s not concerned; Jean’s long legs are stretched out, one foot jiggling back and forth idly, and the slopes of his shoulders are relaxed.

Jean pointedly ignores Alvarez, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the screen. “I tolerate you lot, is that not enough for you? Why on earth would I want to go to some club and be touched by a thousand people with questionable hygiene practices?”

“Judgemental,” Laila says mildly, making a half-hearted attempt to tug her girlfriend back out of the range of Jean’s considerable reach, should he actually snap.

“But probably not wrong,” Jeremy puts in. Alvarez look betrayed, and Jean looks at him sidelong, his expression unreadable. Jeremy isn’t surprised by Jean’s attitude – he can’t exactly blend into a crowd, and public interest in him is still at fever pitch after his split from the Ravens and transfer to USC.

Alvarez opens her mouth to argue further, but Jean moves his gaze back to the TV and says, “Absolutely not.” His tone is final.

Never one to accept what is inconvenient to her agendas, Alvarez pats him on the shoulders, answers, “We’ll come back to this later,” and then vaults over the back of the couch to make popcorn.

* * *

They destroy the UO Ducks in a systematic routing that makes Jeremy’s whole body hum with a savage satisfaction, of the kind that, for an athlete, can only come from the high of winning. Jean almost single-handedly tears apart the Ducks’ offence, which is an incredible thing to watch. From the moment they start game-day preparations, Jean’s sole focus is crushing the dreams of strikers who think they’re going to score goals on him.

“That was almost boring,” Laila says in the locker room after, but her eyes gleam with something fierce. Jeremy can’t imagine Laila would ever be _upset_ by seeing her defensive unit playing so well that it almost completely nullifies her position.

Jean does that thing where he almost smiles, but doesn’t – he just hints at it with his eyes. He shrugs his shoulders elegantly, then grasps the fabric of his jersey between his shoulder blades with one hand, pulling the garment off over his head. 

Caro whistles between his teeth and exaggeratedly looks Jean up and down. “The fans sure loved seeing Moreau annihilate the Ducks and-” he takes a knee, and the girls begin to giggle, “- can you _blame_ them.”

Jean’s expression remains completely impassive, but he does wink down at Caro before retreating to the showers. Jeremy watches the exchange with a strange kind of feeling low in his chest, like his diaphragm is suddenly a little too big for his ribcage. He inexplicably flashes back to Jean, dripping wet and-- Jeremy shakes the thought away like an annoying fly. 

Jeremy looks up, feeling eyes on him, and meets Alvarez’s curious gaze. He looks away and clears his throat, then slinks off to do his post-game analysis with Rhemann.

* * *

Most of the Trojans do end up out after the game, and even Jean deigns to come after much pleading and frankly, _shameful_ begging from Alvarez, Caro and even Laila. Jeremy swears Jean is going to refuse, right up until he meets his eye over all their heads. Jeremy smiles a little as Jean’s intense grey eyes search his own, and whatever answer he finds there seems to satisfy him. “Fine,” he sighs, and Alvarez genuinely squeals with delight.

At the club, Jeremy leans his elbows against the bar, a beer in hand, and surveys his team. They’ve split into two main groups; Caro, McKenzie and co. over by the booths, handing out shots from a very full tray, and Alvarez and a few of the subs – Nicolette, Ricky, and others – are on the fringes of the dance floor, trying to coax Jean to come along with them.

Jeremy watches as Jean digs his heels in, sipping nonchalantly on his whiskey and dry as Sara tugs fruitlessly on his free arm. He chuckles to himself - if Jean doesn’t want to be moved, she might as well be trying to shift a mountain by herself.

Beside him, Laila turns. She has an aperol spritz in her hands, and she stirs the bright orange drink with a candy-stripe straw as she surveys the scene. “She likes him,” Laila says, with a little smile. Jeremy knows she’s referring to Jean and Alvarez. “He’s a cranky bastard, but she’s always liked a little snark.”

Jeremy snorts a little in ironic amusement, because honestly, Laila’s moods are infamous. He takes a sip of his beer, and watches Caro join the rabble trying to push Jean onto the dancefloor.

Then, he feels Laila’s shrewd blue eyes on him, burning into his temple. “You know I hate it when you do that,” he tells his vice-captain, tone mild.

“You like him too,” she says, and _why_ does it sound so very different when she says it in reference to him compared to Alvarez?

Jeremy tries to swallow down the tempo of his heartbeat. When he feels under control, he shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I? He’s funny. Smart. A brilliant athlete.”

“Stoic. Prickly. Brutally honest to the point of being rude-”

“You like him too, don’t pretend,” Jeremy says, cutting Laila off. “I knew what we were getting when I brokered this whole thing with Kevin.”

Laila hums her agreement. “You haven’t dated anyone in ages,” she says, tone contemplative.

Jeremy frowns a little into his beer. On the dancefloor, Jean towers over most of the people around him, and he looks mildly disgusted as Caro and Alvarez grind on him, trying to get him to dance with them. “I fail to see how these conversations are related,” he says to Laila. She knows almost everything there is to know about him, including his romantic dalliances; all ill-fated and emotionally draining, because apparently Jeremy attracts a certain type of hot-but-damaged.

He falls for personalities; man or woman. There’s no one in the club who is catching his eye, so his gaze returns to his teammates on the dancefloor. He’s got no idea where Laila is going with this.

“Maybe time to put yourself out there again?” Laila muses, bumping his shoulder to draw him out of his thoughts. His last relationship, with a USC basketballer name Natalie, had ended with the revelation she’d been cheating, and though it was nearly a year since then, Jeremy still stung with the betrayal.

“I’m not interested in anyone,” he tells her, forcing himself to look away from Jean. “Come on, let’s go sit at the booth with the others.”

Laila follows, but Jeremy feels her intent gaze on him for the rest of the night.

* * *

It is well over four months after Jean moves to California before Jeremy sees him smile for the first time. It’s a Sunday, a rare gloomy Cali day, with rain bucketing endlessly against the roof of the USC Exy team dorm, and it’s a rest day for the team. Jeremy is sprawled across the couch in their room, one hand resting on his crotch - as all men do when at their leisure - and the other behind his head. He’s got ESPN on, but it’s just background noise, and he’s lazily reading a novel on his Kindle.

He glances up as the door lock unclicks softly, and Jean enters. Rainwater clings to the dark waves of his hair, and to the obscenely black lashes that frame his grey eyes. It’s sprinkled liberally on the shoulders of the charcoal coat he is shrugging out of, and the corners of his mouth are turned down in rainy-day annoyance. Jean hangs his coat on the hook behind the door and ruffles a hand through his hair, shaking the fattest of the drops to the floor. Jeremy swallows, and Jean meets his gaze across the room.

Jeremy doesn’t understand the expression that crosses Jean’s face; his brow lifts a little, and his lips twitch, a little ways between slightly intrigued and mildly bored. Then Jean speaks; “What the fuck are you wearing, Knox?” Jean’s accent sharpens his ‘th’s’ into ‘z’s’ and he leans one shoulder against the wall, ankles crossed. He’s stupidly, arrogantly elegant.

Jeremy looks down, nonplussed, at his red-and-gold USC raglan shirt, grey tracksuit pants and most comfortable fleece socks. “Um? Leisurewear?”

Jean rolls his eyes. It shouldn’t be kind-of hot when he does that. But it kind of is. “On your head, _sot_.”

Jeremy clicks, and lets out a brief peal of laughter at the realisation. “It’s a beanie. My mom likes to knit.” The beanie in question is also Trojan red-and-gold, and embroidered along the lip is the name _MOREAU #29._ Jeremy takes it off and runs a hand through his hair, then tosses Jean the beanie. “My mom is a big fan of yours, she and dad have been watching every game from home.”

Jean catches the beanie out of the air and turns it over in his hands. Jeremy watches his thumb trace the ‘M’ in Moreau bemusedly.

“Twenty-two years I’ve been on this green earth, and I’m the _captain_ and she _still_ hasn’t made me a single personalised piece of merch with my name on it,” Jeremy says, arching an eyebrow.

Jean looks four-million miles away, still staring at the beanie in his hands. Jeremy isn’t sure what to say, or do, but then finally Jean clears his throat and seems to come back into himself. He comes over to the couch and leans over Jeremy, replacing the beanie on his head.

“I cannot really blame her,” Jean murmurs, and Jeremy realises, with a jolt, that Jean is _teasing_ him. He’s making fun of him! If it wasn’t so momentous, Jeremy would call him out on it. Jean lifts his hand and gently tucks one stray golden curl that is hanging across Jeremy’s forehead up under the beanie. His fingertips linger for a second, then he drops his hand. The corner of his mouth curves slowly up in a lazy, breath-takingly wry smile, and he says; “It looks good on you, anyway.”

With that, he disappears into the bedroom, leaving Jeremy thunderstruck on the couch. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Jean smile. He never expected to have quite so visceral a reaction to it is all; his heart is beating off-rhythm, and he feels something like a quiet triumph, mixed with something else - something soft and unspoken and undefinable. Jeremy isn’t sure what to make of it all.

* * *

While still rare, after that initial hurdle is vaulted, Jean’s smile starts to appear a little more often. At first, it’s only ever in front of Jeremy, then, slowly, the rest of the team. The first time Caro sees a Moreau smile – a fierce, shark-like game day smile (Jeremy has seen enough now to be able to classify them into categories) – he clutches his chest like a swooning woman, which actually earns him a huffed laugh from Jean, and every head in the locker room turns to them in surprise.

From that point on, it’s a competition between the rest of the Trojans as to who can make Jean smile the most. A secretive whiteboard with names and tallies is ensconced in Sara’s locker, and a betting pool is commenced. Jeremy is quietly disapproving of the whole endeavour, until he realises he’s winning.

The competition is momentarily forgotten though, when Ricky and Jean collide heavily during training; an accidental tangling of ankles as they scrimmage that sees them both hit the deck hard enough to knock the wind out of them.

“Are you guys okay?” Jeremy asks, concerned, jogging over to them. Ricky seems fine, if not a little short of breath, but Jean is pale-faced and clutching his shoulder. Jeremy quickly establishes that it’s not dislocated, which would be one of the more serious outcomes. He squats in front of Jean, reaching out and stopping just short of touching him.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Jeremy says.

Jean nods, to indicate Jeremy can touch him, and he does, gently probing muscle and bone with his fingertips.

“Just whiplash, I think,” Jean says, watching Jeremy’s face for any sign that he should be concerned. “Probably a bruise.”

Jeremy nods his agreement and drops his hands away from Jean. “You’ll let doc check it over though?”

Jean nods, and Jeremy wraps up training a little early. Later, he’s sprawled on the couch in their suite, and Laila and Alvarez are sitting on the floor on either side of the coffee table. They bought pizza with them and they are gossiping frivolously about some reality TV show, while Jeremy listens and eats.

Eventually, Jean returns, dumping his training bag inside the door. “Clean bill of health,” he says unprompted as he folds himself onto the floor in front of where Jeremy is sitting. He pulls his USC hoodie off, and Jeremy can indeed see the beginnings of a bruise on his delt, as Jean predicted. “Just muscle stiffness from the impact,” Jean continues, snagging a slice of pizza before settling back against the couch.

Jean takes a bite, then glances over his shoulder at Jeremy and, seeing his hands are empty, says “Be a lamb,” and gestures at his taut trapeziuses.

Sara and Laila’s eyebrows raise in freaky twin unison, but Jeremy studiously ignores them. He tells Jean to wait, and then goes to his own training bag and retrieves his deep heat cream after a moment of rummaging. He slowly, methodically works the cream into Jean’s tense muscles, feeling the tingle as it begins to work.

“Isn’t this _domestic_,” Alvarez says, something like gloating in her tone. Jeremy senses, rather than sees Jean’s eye-roll.

“Fuck off,” Jean says, without any of the venom he might have used five months prior.

“Is this going to be a problem on Saturday?” Laila asks before her girlfriend can retort, levelling a chocolate-mousse-covered spoon at Jean’s shoulder. “Every team in the conference is trying to find your heel, my Achilles, we don’t want to hand one to them on a platter.”

Jeremy huffs a laugh as he works his thumb into a particularly stubborn knot in Jean’s left trap. Achilles is a good likeness for Jean; brash, the best of their kind (Exy players), unshakeable and seemingly without weakness. It is only to the people he trusts that he shows the softer angles that exist amongst his hard planes.

“It’s not going to be a problem,” Jean says eventually, when Laila just waits expectantly, instead of allowing him to get away with sullen silence as an answer.

“You know,” Alvarez says loudly, as if there’s not a civilised conversation happening around her, “if Moreau is Achilles, then that makes Jeremy Patroclus.”

Jeremy, whose Greek history knowledge is really quite poor for someone whose school is named ‘Trojans’, is nonplussed. Jean’s shoulders tighten a little, but Jeremy is already up and goes to wash his hands. When he returns, Jean is still in the same position, so he brushes his fingertips lightly into the soft, dark waves at the base of Jean’s neck.

“Hmm,” Laila murmurs, thoughtfully.

* * *

Later, in the darkness of their bedroom and the midnight hours, Jean speaks of being forced to play with broken bones, of running on pure adrenaline until he was finally allowed to collapse into his bed, unable to move for days, curled up with his agony.

He tells Jeremy a hypothetical story about his graduation day, and about how Jeremy had altered that plan forever. Jeremy thinks about crossing the floor to Jean’s bed, though with no idea what he would do if he did, he lays in the gloom listening to his own heartbeat until Jean’s breathing indicates he’s asleep instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Limited series (5 chapters), updating roughly weekly. Come be friends with me on [tumblr!](https://j--moreau.tumblr.com)


	3. of the world

The USC versus Edgar Allan game is approaching and Jeremy can see that Jean is…not coping. Of course, he’s not coping in the most Jean-like of ways; he’s more sullen and silent than usual, he trains aggressively – both in the gym and on the court – and he holds in all the emotion of the occasion until Jeremy startles him coming through the door one evening. Jean jumps a foot in the air and drops a glass, which shatters, and he flinches instinctively.

Jeremy starts toward him, to make sure he’s okay, but Jean raises a hand to stop him. His expression is so sad that Jeremy’s heart breaks for him. Jean is usually so well held together, but right now he’s a crooked and cracked creature, with bone exposed and deep, gaping psychological wounds, and he looks at Jeremy, soundless, anguished, like he’s waiting for Jeremy to raise a stone and end his pain. Jeremy wishes he could show Jean how far he’s come in moments like this; moments when it feels like the past few months never happened and Jean has only just arrived in California.

Jeremy says nothing and opts instead to help Jean clean up in silence. When they’re done, he pours them both a scotch on the rocks, and their fingertips brush as Jeremy hands over the glass. Jean watches him the whole time with those intense grey eyes.

They sit down at either ends of the couch, facing each other, and for a moment Jeremy sizes Jean up. His shoulders seem to have relaxed a little, and though he’s still keeping an eye on Jeremy like a wary animal, the corners of his mouth are soft. It sends an unexpected little thrill down Jeremy’s spine to know that Jean is so much more comfortable with him now.

“What was it like?” Jeremy eventually asks, taking a gamble.

Jean pauses with his scotch glass halfway to his mouth. His infuriatingly expressive right eyebrow lifts slowly, and Jeremy knows he doesn’t have to clarify what he means. _The Nest. _

Jeremy thinks Jean is just going to decline to answer, because he is silent for so long after lowering the glass to his thigh. His other hand worries at the threads of the artful rip in his jeans, and the only other indication of his inner battle is the way the corner of his mouth moves ever so slightly downward. Jeremy waits, still, concerned that any movement or follow up will scare Jean off like a skittish animal. Then Jean closes his eyes and speaks.

“Have you ever experienced a night so black that the darkness hums?” Jean asks him, eyes still closed, voice husky.

“No,” Jeremy answers, deeply unsettled.

“You cannot imagine such darkness. Everything black, and you’re underground, so sound is different, the temperature is static, and there’s no windows. Glimpses of the sky are so few and far between you start to doubt the moon and sun still hang.” He finally reopens his eyes, and Jeremy feels pinned to his spot. There is an ocean in Jean’s grey eyes, a well of desolation that is as magnetic as it is terrible.

“Is that why you close your eyes a lot?” Jeremy says before he can stop himself, a hunch prickling at the back of his neck.

Jean nods slowly, his expression suggesting a smallest hint of surprise at how perceptive Jeremy is. “To control my own darkness.”

Setting down his own glass, Jeremy instinctively reaches out to touch Jean’s face, and instantly regrets it when he flinches violently away. Jeremy starts to pull back, but then Jean says, “No, I’m sorry,” and as if Jeremy wasn’t already shocked enough by that statement, Jean then leans himself forward into Jeremy’s outstretched palm. Jeremy hesitates only a second before running his thumb along Jean’s high cheekbone, and the number inked there. Jean closes his eyes and stays that way for a long time, and Jeremy ignores the ache in his knees because this moment is so much more important.

“I was there for so long,” Jean eventually says, opening his gunmetal grey eyes to look at Jeremy. “I’m just not used to kind touch.”

_Kind touch. Gentle. Comfort, not infliction of pain. _Jeremy chokes on nothing.

Jean shifts his body closer and softens into Jeremy’s side, and they sit in companionable silence for a long time, until Jeremy says, “You know it’s going to be fine, right? The game? You’re ready.”

Jean says nothing, but his lips are soft and his brow is smooth as he drums four fingers thoughtfully against Jeremy’s knee.

* * *

The lead up to the game is rough in several ways. The press are rabid; there are headlines about Jean, about the Trojans, constant questions about if the Trojans are up to task, and if Jean is good enough to play against the Ravens. Coach Rhemann’s phone rings off the hook, completely ignored all week. Jean only asks if he can smash it once, his heavy backliner’s racquet poised over the handset, and he looks genuinely disappointed when Rhemann says no.

Jean is tense and frequently broody, and that transfers into the other Trojans, though Jeremy does his best to keep them calm. Alvarez is a ball of nervous energy, and even Laila is snappy at times. Jeremy is worried that something is going to go horribly wrong as he ushers his team into LAX; like maybe they’ll forget one of them, or maybe a whole engine will drop off the plane.

The six-and-a-half hour flight feels like a solid twelve. At one point, Jean’s left knee has been anxiously bouncing for so long that Jeremy instinctively reaches over and puts his hand on it to still him. When Jean doesn’t shake him off, Jeremy’s heart contracts oddly and his ears feel hot. He withdraws, and forces himself to look out the window, and misses the corner of Jean’s mouth turning downwards unhappily.

Their Charleston hotel is lovely, which means Rhemann really put the hard word on the money people at USC. Jean looks around his room, which is opposite Jeremy’s, and his expression is still unimpressed as he tells Jeremy two nights in West Virginia is still two nights too many. He doesn’t come down to team dinner, and though Jeremy threatens to break the fingers of anyone who so much as knocks on Jean’s door before they have to leave for the Nest the following day, he does it himself when Jean ignores seventeen texts and three phone calls. Jean doesn’t answer the door either.

Jeremy isn’t proud to say he watches through his peep-hole until Jean opens his door for the room service man. He wedges the door open with his foot, and almost laughs when Jean turns to glare at him, his mouth half-full of risotto.

“I’m just making sure you’re okay,” Jeremy says, holding up his hands, palms out. _Don’t shoot._

Jean reclines on his bed, bowl perched on his lap, and mutters something in French. “Sit down,” he says eventually, jerking his head at the foot of the bed. Jeremy does as he’s told.

“And if I’m not?” Jean asks, eyeing Jeremy where he is perched at the end of the bed. Jeremy draws his knees up to his chest.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to make it better.”

Jean tips his head back onto the fabric of the headboard, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _‘of course you would.’_ Jeremy watches him swallow, watches the prominence of his Adam’s apple and the rings of his trachea bob up and down. His own mouth feels inordinately dry.

After a minute of silence, Jean slants his gaze down to meet Jeremy’s. “_Ça va?” _

Jeremy has been doing enough secret French practice to know both what this means, and how to answer conversationally. “_Ça va.” _He nods, and Jean’s right eyebrow quirks the tiniest bit.

Jean sets aside his empty bowl, and wriggles down until he’s nestled in the pillows. Jeremy is still sitting curled and somewhat tense at the end of the bed. Jean pokes Jeremy’s ankle bone with his big toe. “Your accent is bad.”

“I’m American,” Jeremy says, with an apologetic shrug.

“It’s ugly,” Jean says, then pauses. His grey eyes travel slowly down Jeremy’s face, over the curves of his lips, down his neck. Jeremy shivers before he can even help it, feeling curiously exposed under Jean’s intense gaze. The corner of Jean’s mouth quirks, and he continues; “But it’s kind of cute that you’re trying to learn.”

Jeremy feels heat rising up his neck. “I just want you to be comfortable.”

Jean huffs a laugh, getting up to put his room service tray outside the door and usher Jeremy off to bed. “And that’s why I’m okay, Knox.”

* * *

Jean throws his empty Gatorade bottle violently in the trashcan, which he gives a kick for good measure. It goes flying, the metal clanging. He is bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow, and Jeremy isn’t one hundred percent convinced he isn’t favouring his right leg. The rest of the Trojan’s trudge into the locker room dejectedly and fling themselves across various surfaces. Most of them, except the subs who haven’t had minutes, are sweaty and red-faced and nursing bruises of their own. Rhemann follows, his face thunderous.

They are down six to ten. The Ravens had come into the game angry about the press they’d been getting, and were shockingly violent – even for them – and Jean was clearly the main target of their ire – though any Trojan who got in the way would do also. Jeremy watches him sprawl on the bench, stemming the blood from his forehead with a paper towel. His expression is even darker than Rhemann’s; he meets Jeremy’s gaze and it’s so potent that goosebumps burst to life all the way up Jeremy’s arms.

“Does anyone-” Rhemann sucks in a breath through his nose, “-want to explain _what the fuck_ is happening out there?” He gestures at his whiteboards, with plays that the Trojans have practiced for literally thousands of hours and then spreads his arms like ‘_why the fuck aren’t you all following the game plan?’_

Half-a-dozen Trojans pipe up at the same time, but Rhemann holds up a silencing hand. “_Rhetorical. Question.”_ He looks sidelong at Jeremy standing next to him, and Jeremy looks down at his feet, rocking back and forth on the balls. He doesn’t have an answer for the Trojan’s collapse, and he’ll be damned if he hasn’t tried to single-handedly drag them to victory – he has personally scored five out of their six.

“You’re all fucking scared,” Jean says suddenly, his voice a deep, French-accented rumble from low in his chest. “And that is _exactly_ what they want.”

Jeremy looks at him sharply, wanting to be mad that he’s not including himself in that statement, but he can’t. Jean has been like Leonidas facing down Xerxes since the moment they stepped off the bus at Evermore. Jean levels the same fearless, arrogant stare he’s given every Raven tonight at Jeremy, and pushes himself up off the bench. 

‘_Holy shit he’s going to talk to them,’ _Jeremy thinks. 

He sees the shock on the faces of all the Trojans as Jean moves to stand in front of them. Rhemann looks at Jeremy, and he just shrugs back at the coach. Jean has never so much as addressed the whole group for a snarky Moreau comment, let alone made a halftime speech with the game on the line. Alvarez leans forward, elbows on her knees, interested. The Trojans are completely silent.

“They don’t think you’re worthy of this place,” Jean says, husky, his accent bleeding into every word. His intense grey stare is mesmerising, fathomless. “The Big Three?” Jean’s upper lip curls derisively. “In their minds, there is only _them,_” Jean slams the butt of his racquet into the floor, the thud echoing in the silent room as emphasis, “- and the rest of us are lesser.”

Alvarez boos, getting into it.

Jean lifts his chin arrogantly. “They thought they’d broken me. _He_ thought that even if I ever played Exy again, I’d never be the same.” He pounds the racquet end down again, and Jeremy chances a look at his team. They are staring at Jean, rapt, hanging off his every word. Jeremy is awed.

Jean levels his penetrating stare at Jeremy and holds his gaze, unwavering as he crescendos. “Well he’s dead. And I am _unchained._” Alvarez pounds the metal bench in a vicious war beat for him, the sound ringing almost as loud as Jean’s words. “I am _awoken.” _Jeremy cannot break Jean’s stare.

Jean raises his palms and his racquet to the endless black roof, and he snarls, “_I will unleash hell.” _

The Trojans rise to their feet as one, responding with a resounding roar that gives Jeremy literal chills. They’re going to win this. He’s never been so sure of anything. Rhemann’s expression suggests he is both impressed and has nothing to add, so he ushers them into their line up to return to the court.

Before he takes his place at the front of the line, Jeremy stops next to Jean. They’ve both already got their helmets back on; Jeremy slips his fingers through the grate that protects Jean’s face and pulls him down until they are forehead to forehead. “Kill them. Eat them raw, Moreau,” he says, low enough that only Jean can hear.

The smile he gets in return is bright and sharp, like the last grin of a shark before it eats you.

* * *

The two teams battle ferociously for another forty minutes, and, spurred by Jean’s rousing half-time address, the Trojans level the game to eleven-all. The Ravens are still playing like they want to send every Trojan to the emergency room in pieces, but instead of systemically crumbling as they had in the first half, the Trojans play smarter and refuse to sink to the same level. The Ravens are rattled – cards are being handed out like candy, but their squad is so large that it hardly seems to matter.

With barely any time left on the clock, Jeremy’s thighs are burning and his lungs feel like they’re about to collapse, but he pushes himself relentlessly on. He wants to win this game more than he’s ever wanted anything.

The Ravens have dropped a defensive dealer back to double team him, and the guy’s trash talk is as disgusting as the Ravens’ tactics. Eventually, Jeremy rolls his eyes and replies with a strong suggestion that the dealer is overcompensating for something.

All the breath leaves Jeremy’s chest as his back slams against the plexiglass, with the defensive dealers’ thick forearm pinning him in place. In his periphery, he sees Alvarez make a start towards them to intervene, but his own eyes are focused on what’s occurring across the court. He sees it in slow motion as its happening; the commotion with Jeremy and the backliners has opened up the entire right of the court, and Jean and the Raven striker are sprinting for the loose ball.

The Raven striker collects it in his net first, at half-court, but Jean is right at his shoulder and he hits like lightning; a shoulder-check, stick-check one-two, perfectly legal and _flawlessly_ executed, and Jeremy watches the ball arc from enemy net to Jean’s. He sucks in a breath; he’s seen Jean make these shots from half-court at least ten-thousand times at practice, has seen him flick his wrist and racquet in the most sublime way. It’s a skill that could have only been perfected over tens of thousands of hours of drilling. And, he feels more than thinks, Jean’s body is in perfect condition now. No broken bones, no stitches. Just six-foot-three of prime athletic specimen.

Jean’s racquet head twists in response to the command of his wrist. The Raven striker throws himself towards Jean’s outstretched arm, perhaps in an attempt to foil the release, or even the ball itself. But Jean is too quick; the striker crashes to the hardwood as Jeremy watches the ball hurtle toward goal. His blood is roaring in his ears; all eyes on the court and in the crowd turn to goal.

The Ravens’ goalie dives, and for a second, Jeremy loses sight of the ball. But then the wall lights up red, and the scoreboard clicks like the lid of a coffin closing, and a heartbeat later, the siren sounds.

And then the Trojan bench and the fans in the crowd _erupt. _Every player on court looks to the scoreboard, and from the Trojans’ goal end, Laila screams in triumph. Jeremy looks to Jean, who has ripped his helmet off and is raising his arms in a defiant salute to the stunned Edgar Allan fans, the look on his face both vicious and beautiful. Jeremy shoves the Raven dealer off, and then he runs, faster than he ever has before, in defiance of the lactic acid in his quads, towards Jean. He is a few steps away when Jean turns; he drops his racquet and helmet and opens his arms out to Jeremy, who throws himself into them. Jean catches him, and only concedes one step to Jeremy’s considerable momentum.

“Jean Moreau, you _beautiful fucking bastard!_” he yells over the roar of the crowd. “I could _kiss_ you!”

Jean actually laughs, exhilaratedly, and then the rest of the team is piling onto them. Jeremy thinks briefly about how six months prior, Jean would have never let any of them, except for maybe Jeremy, touch him like this. Now he’s a _real_ Trojan. A game-changing, match-winning, miracle-producing _Trojan_. Jeremy manages to catch a glimpse of the scoreboard amongst the limbs and other body parts that surround him.

Twelve-eleven. _Trojans win_.

On the way back to the locker room, Rhemann is grinning, which is the most excited Jeremy has ever seen him. He stops the group. “You two,” Coach says, levelling his index finger at Jeremy and Jean, and ushering his other troops onwards towards the locker room. “Press.”

Jeremy hears Jean exhale heavily through his nose, but he follows Jeremy towards the waiting media reluctantly. The vultures clamour; this is the first press Jean has done since Jeremy’s bombshell announcement of his transfer to USC. In the first few days after that, the iconic line _‘He just won’t be back in black,’ _was splashed over every sports news outlet and medium, and Jeremy and Coach had fielded upwards of twenty calls a day from press. The media frenzy had calmed down a little once the season started, but even now Coach got frequent requests for Jean, and it had definitely escalated in the lead up to the Edgar Allan game.

“Jean!” they say, crowding forward, all desperate to be the one to ask him the first question he’ll answer on camera in over a year.

A small, contemptuous crease appears between Jean’s brows, and he looks to Jeremy in clear deference to his captain. It is obvious that Jean won’t answer any questions addressed to him until Jeremy has spoken first. Jeremy smiles brightly, laughing internally; Jean’s arms are crossed defensively over his chest and the two of them are chalk and cheese.

“Jeremy,” one of the more clued in reporters begins, “A historic victory today against Edgar Allan, with your prized recruit - what does this say for USC’s championship hopes?”

Jeremy smiles wider and pats Jean’s shoulder. “I think the rest of NCAA Exy should sit up and take notice. The Trojans are coming.”

A sharp faced man angles his microphone towards Jeremy. “What does this loss say for the Ravens’ season? Is the dynasty crumbling?”

Internally, Jeremy blanches at the question, but he’s been doing press for so long now that his game face doesn’t even change. And to his credit, Jean remains as stony and unreadable as ever. “The Ravens are a quality outfit,” he says diplomatically. “Systemic change always makes things a bit unsteady for a short time. I’m sure they will bounce back.”

The man turns his mic to Jean, who arches a brow in a very _come at me _kind of way. “I think everyone is _very_ interested in what happened between you and Edgar Allan, and your progress this year - how would you describe it? A comeback? An unshackling of potential?”

Jeremy only just manages to suppress a derisive snort. What a _wanker_. Jean’s expression hasn’t changed, but Jeremy can see the frantic search for a diplomatic answer behind his eyes that wars with his instinct to be a sarcastic asshole. But that’s only because he knows Jean so well. He leans forward, placing a hand on the stem of the microphone.

“Don’t call it a comeback,” Jeremy says into the mic, eyeing the reporter and grinning in that cheeky-shit way he does when he says something with a double meaning.

“What would you call it then, Jean?” one of the other reporters asks.

Jean is silent for a long moment, staring down the camera lens and ignoring the mics in his face. Jeremy watches him and shivers, thinking about what it’s like to be on the other end of that intense, soul-stripping stare. If Jean had looked at him, he would have smiled encouragingly, but instead he just waits with bated breath like everyone else.

Then, the corner of Jean’s mouth quirks ever so slightly and the reporters surge a little, like they know something is about to happen. He opens his mouth and says, “Call it a phoenix rising from the fucking ashes.”

Then, he turns on his heel and disappears into the away team rooms. Jeremy grins, absolutely thrilled with this turn of events, and says, “See y’all at the next game!” and then jogs off after Jean.

* * *

Jean sits next to Jeremy on the bus ride back to the hotel, though Jeremy spends much of it on the phone to his mom and dad, and Jean leans his elbows against the back of the seat in front of him as he talks in low, casual tones with Alvarez and Laila. Jeremy hadn’t realised how truly difficult everything had been for Jean until he saw him visibly relax at the sight of the stars above them and the sound of their bus rolling away from Evermore.

Jeremy’s mom and dad are extremely excited; they watched the live stream of the game and Jeremy lets them rave animatedly in his ear. When he finally hangs up, he’s got a question to ask Jean – his mom made him promise three times before she let him off the phone.

He turns his head; the girls have stopped annoying Jean and he is leaning his head against the bus window. His brown hair is soft and fluffy-looking after his post-game shower. He’s got a piece of tape over his cut forehead, and a bruise is blossoming around his right eye. The corner of his lip is turned upwards ever so slightly as he watches the traffic pass by them. He looks – as much as Jean ever does – _happy._ Jeremy lingers over the profile of his mouth without even realising what he’s doing, until Jean’s gaze slides over to him.

“Yes Knox?”

Jeremy swallows, and turns his phone over in his hands. “I’ve got a question for you – just tell me if it’s stupid.”

Jean shrugs, as if to say ‘go on’.

“My mom wants you to come home with me for Christmas,” Jeremy says, all his breath coming out in a rush.

He doesn’t understand the expression forming on Jean’s face, until he replies; “Do you not want that?”

“No I do! Mom, dad, me, everyone wants you to come – if you want to?” Jeremy almost cringes at the hopefulness in his own tone, but that soft expression he can’t describe in words is back on Jean’s face.

“Why not?” Jean says after a long silence, his voice a little hoarse.

“Great! Mom will be thrilled. Get ready for more personalised, homemade merchandise.” Jeremy shoots Jean a grin and types a quick text to his mum. Jean exhales for a long moment, and then drops his head to Jeremy’s shoulder.

“I’m going to use you as a pillow now Knox, please keep your fidgeting to a minimum.”

* * *

By the time Jeremy and Jean disembark at Honolulu International, a muscle is working in Jean’s jaw. For his part, Jeremy feels the sense of calm and inner stillness that he only ever feels when he’s home on the island, close to the surf and the sun and the knowledge of nature. He got his golden blonde curls from his mother, and his tanned skin and obsession with the ocean from his Hawaiian father.

It’s early evening, and the air is warm and balmy as they leave the terminal and cross into the car rental place. When they finally load up their luggage and get on the road, Jean is still tense; his knuckles are stark white, his fingers clutched in a fist against his thigh. Without thinking, Jeremy lifts his hand off the gearstick and puts it on Jean’s forearm. Jeremy realises what he’s done a moment later, but it’d be too awkward to pull away now, so he just squeezes Jean gently. Jean stares at the hand on his arm for what feels like an age.

“They’re going to like you Jean,” Jeremy pauses to check the traffic before pulling across the lanes into his parents’ driveway. “They already do.”

“They don’t know me.” Jean scowls. “And I don’t need a boyfriend speech.”

A flood of heat hits Jeremy’s cheeks and he feels his heart pick up. “What do you mean?”

“This – this – pep talk. Like I’m some wrong-side-of-the-tracks boyfriend.”

Jeremy swallows down his heartbeat and plasters a huge signature-Knox smile on his face. “Hey, you’d be bloody lucky to have me as a boyfriend.” He feels, more than sees, Jean roll his eyes.

He’s saved from whatever snarky retort Jean’s about to come back with though by the approach of his parents; his mom all Southern blonde, excitable and bouncing, and his dad loping gracefully. Jeremy throws himself at them, allowing his mom to smother him with noisy kisses and his dad to pat him on the shoulder affectionately. Between his mom’s flailing limbs, Jeremy looks back over his shoulder. Jean is emerging from the car slowly, the muscle in his jaw still working overtime. Adele spots him, and pauses in her attack on her son.

“Jean!” she cries, releasing Jeremy and opening her arms to him. “We’re so pleased to have you here.” Jeremy grins; god he missed the sound of his mom’s warm Alabama drawl.

Jean’s eyes travel over Adele, to Ike. He’s tall and wiry, with salt-and-pepper hair that’s pulled back into a low bun, and a lazy smile. Jean’s brow rises a little, and he allows himself to be kissed in greeting. “It’s very kind of you to have me, Mr and Mrs Knox.” He shakes Ike’s hand.

“Oh my, that accent,” Adele says reverently, looking at Jeremy. She actually puts her hand to her necklace – granted it’s made of tiny shells his father collected for her, not pearls, but Jeremy is still concerned she’s going to swoon.

Jean’s gaze sweeps across the house now; a sprawling bungalow nested in the dunes and the tropical palms. The sound of the ocean crashes just beyond the back of the house and the smell of salt soothes Jeremy’s plane-weary bones like nothing else. His dad’s surfboards are lined up on the porch, and a few beach towels hang over the rails. It’s extremely likely that Ike has been in the water all day – Jeremy had seen the swell from the main road on the drive up and it was pumping.

“This place is beautiful,” Jean says. His face is still solemn, but he’s unclenched his jaw at least.

Adele ushers them all inside, bustling around like the human whirlwind she is and giving Jean the tour before making tea. She shoos them up the stairs, telling them to put their bags away and wash up for dinner. Jean follows Jeremy, who bounds across the landing to his bedroom door and flings it open with a flourish, just as his mom calls up the stairs, “Oh and by the way-”

Jeremy sets his bag down with a soft thump, at the exact time that Jean says a faint ‘_oh.’_ Of course, Jeremy mentally berates himself, his sisters are home and have the other bedroom. All that’s left for them is Jeremy’s old double bed.

Jean mutters something that sounds like ‘_intéressant.’_

“Ah,” Jeremy’s mom says mildly, appearing on the landing behind them. “If sharing is going to be an issue, I can see if Jeremy’s dad can find one of the old camp rolls in the shed? The inflatable mattress has a leak and we just haven’t gotten around to replacing it.”

Jean just raises a brow and juts his chin deferentially at Jeremy, clearly stating non-verbally ‘_you deal with it.’ _

“It’ll be fine, mom,” Jeremy says. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, but he isn’t sure why. It _will_ be fine – they share a dorm room at college, sharing a bed isn’t that far removed from that.

Jean lays down, looking downright amused by the whole situation, and Jeremy finds himself cracking a little; Jean just looks so ridiculous, with his legs hanging off the end of the bed because he’s so tall. He starfishes, and fixes Jeremy with a strange look.

“Can’t wait to spoon later,” he says wryly, and Jeremy nearly chokes on his own tongue.


	4. we saw nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh wee, that was not one week between drinks, sorry kids. This story is fully written, life just got in the way of final edits. Hope you all still love me xx

They watch the sunset over the ocean from the back porch, all sprawled out in the odd assortment of colourful banana lounges and beach chairs that Ike and Adele have collected over the years. Jeremy and Ike are animatedly talking surfing – in particular, Pipe, which is a mere hop-skip-and-a-jump up the road. The WSL competition had wrapped there just days earlier. Jean alternates between listening curiously and answering Adele’s myriad of questions with succinct – but polite – responses. Jeremy has actually never heard him be so respectful – he kind of wants to film Jean and send it to Alvarez, but that’s the kind of behaviour that would definitely earn him a broken arm and a smashed phone.

Jeremy’s sisters barrel in just as the sun meets the horizon; tall, willowy Iris – the baby – who has the same golden hair and sun-tanned skin as her brother, and Kai – the oldest – who is shorter than both her younger siblings, but has a raucous laugh that makes everyone join in and is a beauty queen like their mother.

Iris squeals in delight when she sees Jeremy, and throws herself at him, slapping him in the face with her wet, sea-salty hair in her excitement. Like their father, Iris is three-quarters fish, and wants to join the pro-surfing tour – but not until she finishes high school, as per the Law According to Adele.

Kai seats herself in the lounge chair next to where Jean is sprawled. She eyes him sidelong, tapping her index finger thoughtfully against her thigh. Jean glances over to Iris and Jeremy, who are whispering conspiratorially, their heads close together.

“Suspicious, isn’t it?” Kai says dryly. Jean slides his gaze to her; she’s an interesting conundrum, with her Southern belle looks and her antithetical, clearly Hawaiian name. He looks at her blankly, and she jerks her chin at her siblings, continuing; “Those two whispering away over there.”

“Oh,” Jean says, fixing his eyes on the ocean again. “You know better than I.”

Kai laughs, low and husky. It’s a sound that reminds Jean of her brother. He determinedly keeps his gaze on the rollicking waves and the diffuse rose-coloured sky. In the corner of his vision, Kai crosses her right leg over the left.

“They’ve always been a pair, those two. Always ganging up on me, teasing me, and pulling pranks on me.” She sighs, and Jean hums in fake sympathy which he hopes passes for real. He would have given anything for a normal childhood of sibling teasing and angst. He rests his elbow on the arm of his chair, and touches his fingertips to the crescent moon scar that curves around the tattoo on his cheekbone. The real moon is a crescent tonight too, he notes with mild interest.

Kai is watching him closely. She has this way about her that is so _Jeremy_, it makes Jean’s chest feel a little tight. Maybe it’s the way she seems to stare straight through to the heart of him, like Jeremy does.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and for a moment, Jean thinks it’ll be a welcome reprieve from Kai’s scrutiny. It’s not – it’s Caro.

_Caro _♡: _Miss you big boy xxxxxxxx_

Caro had saved his number and added the heart himself. Jean reminds himself for the hundredth time to remember to get rid of it. He types a quick response.

_Jean: You’re an idiot._

_Caro _♡: _Love you and your aggressive full stops xxxxxxx_

Jean rolls his eyes and slips the phone back into his pocket. He sighs, and tips his head back, revelling in the satisfying crack in his neck as he does so. Kai, who rather seems to have enjoyed the companionable way Jean has practically ignored her, smiles a little.

“We are going to be good friends I think,” she muses, and Jean squeezes his eyes shut.

* * *

The Knox family cooks Jean an absolute feast to welcome him to their home; sautéed vegetables, gorgeous fresh seafood, and desserts too. Jean, who is so used to strict and regimented eating, even after months of freedom, is completely overwhelmed. Having anticipated this, clearly, Jeremy gives him a plate already laden with ‘all the best bits’. Jean shoots Jeremy a look of weak gratitude, and Jeremy spots Kai smiling knowingly. He kicks at her under the table.

Jean is silent through much of the meal, but he’s definitely not unhappy, Jeremy thinks, and he likes to think he knows Jean well enough to be able to tell by now.

“So, Jem. How are you coping with losing your crown?” Iris asks, around a mouthful of potatoes. She’s honestly so charming, she just gets away with being semi-disgusting some times.

“What?” Jeremy asks dumbly. Kai makes a noise that might be snort of laughter, but which she passes off as a sniff. Jean sits back in his chair, sipping red wine impassively.

“You know, how you’re no longer the hottest guy on the Trojans? All my friends can’t stop talking about monsieur here.” Iris uses her knife to point at Jean, which is apparently where Adele draws the line; she chides Iris once, using her name with an exasperated tone.

To Jeremy’s surprise, Jean actually smirks, though he tries to conceal it behind the rim of his wine glass.

“Iris!” Jeremy scolds, and she laughs.

“What? He’s _gorgeous_.” She shrugs expansively, still grinning. “Not my fault you’re old news.”

Jeremy looks to his dad for back up – they are both used to being totally outnumbered by women and having to be each other’s support in normal family skirmishes. Ike looks both slightly suspicious of Jean and also confused by why any of it matters.

“Let’s all just agree…” Ike says slowly, putting his fork down, “That Jean is attractive, Jeremy is number one – in his mother’s eyes at least – and Iris is not allowed to date until she’s twenty-five.”

Jean actually snorts into his wine glass.

* * *

The upstairs bathroom is on the smaller side – which caused_ endless_ angst with Iris and Kai as teenagers – and so Jeremy and Jean have to stand close as they brush their teeth. Jean is inspecting the nails of his free hand as he brushes, and so Jeremy takes the opportunity to look at him in the mirror. He feels a soft rush of affection for _this _Jean; this off-duty, barefoot Jean in supple grey tracksuit pants, with the sliver of skin that shows between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his pants as his arm moves. The sleeves of Jean’s t-shirt curve lovingly around his biceps, and the white material looks fantastic against the new tan he has acquired since leaving Evermore. He looks so healthy, so _good_, Jeremy muses, the thought coming to him unbidden from the void. Jean’s eyes cut up to meet Jeremy’s, and instead of being embarrassed to be caught staring, Jeremy offers him a huge, toothpaste-filled grin, before leaning over the sink to rinse his mouth.

He potters around his room for a few minutes, while he waits for Jean to finish up. When Jean enters, Jeremy asks him which side of the bed he’d prefer, and Jean contemplates for a long moment.

“The wall,” he finally says. Jeremy makes to move around Jean to get into bed, wordlessly accepting this choice, but then Jean continues; “If I have a nightmare then, you can get out of my reach easily.”

Jeremy smiles, soft and slow like honey, not the huge, teasing grin from before. He pats Jean’s shoulder gently too. “Whatever you’re going to feel most comfortable with. That’s what we will do.”

Jean lays down close to the wall, beneath the huge red and gold ‘_Trojans’_ pennant, one arm flung across his forehead and one knee bent. He looks generally okay, Jeremy thinks, propping himself on his elbows to look at him properly in the lamplight. Although, the corners of his mouth do look a little heavy, and every now and then, the muscle in his jaw flickers.

“You alright?” Jeremy asks, just to make sure.

“Shockingly, yes,” Jean says dryly. “I’m just exhausted.” He yawns widely, as if to punctuate his assertion.

“Totally fair,” Jeremy agrees, settling himself down on his front, his head turned to the side to face Jean.

The room is silent for a long time, and Jeremy thinks maybe Jean is asleep, until he rolls onto his side. His dark hair curls softly over his forehead, and Jeremy’s fingers twitch, struck with a strange urge to gently brush it back. One of Jean’s eyes is in shadow, the other, illuminated by the lamp, is an ethereal, translucent grey, and Jeremy can almost see down into his soul through its moonlight-coloured path.

“Thank you,” Jean murmurs. He reaches out, his hand coming to rest on Jeremy’s neck. Jean’s thumb brushes lightly along the angle of his jaw, and Jeremy is suddenly the furthest away from sleep that he’s ever been. His nerves are alive, wired, and his heart palpitates oddly, and yet the only area of his skin that seems to have any sensation left is his neck. A restless, wordless question hums beneath his skin.

“For what?” he manages to choke out, voice hoarse.

Jean hums wordlessly for a beat. “For bringing me here. Your family are great. For taking care of me. _Merci, philtatos._”

Jeremy knows _merci_ is thanks, but he doesn’t know the meaning of the other word. Before he can ask, Jean is asleep. His hand remains, heavy, but kind of like home, on Jeremy’s neck.

* * *

Jeremy stirs to the sounds of Jean talking in low, urgent French. He’s dreaming, Jeremy vaguely registers, perhaps even drifting into a nightmare. Jeremy rolls over, acting on pure, sleep-laden instinct and curves himself against Jean’s back. He drapes an arm over Jean and pats his chest gently, feeling the twitching gradually cease. Within seconds, Jeremy is deeply asleep again, and Jean is still and peaceful.

* * *

Jeremy wakes to golden sunlight falling across the bed, and watches tiny dust motes eddy in the shaft of light as he stretches luxuriously. The world feels warm and bright, and Jean is an adorable tangle of limbs next to him. He rouses a little as Jeremy moves, and then rolls over onto his stomach, head facing Jeremy, and cracks an eye open to look at him.

“Morning,” Jean says, his voice sleep-husky. The corner of his mouth curves upward a little.

“Morning,” Jeremy answers, his throat inexplicably dry all of a sudden. He slides himself partially upright and looks down at Jean. “How did you sleep?”

“Brilliantly,” Jean says, a note of surprise colouring his tone. “Actually, really great.” His eyelids close down for a moment, before opening again, and he levels a finger at Jeremy. “Did you spoon me last night?”

Heat floods to Jeremy’s cheeks, and he chuckles sheepishly. He picks at the seam of his duvet, avoiding Jean’s intent grey gaze. “Yes,” he says, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “You were… I dunno, dreaming? I wanted to help.”

Jean laughs a little. “Wow. You have _got_ to control your feelings for me Knox, you’re my captain.” Jean shifts and sits up, stretching high into the air. Every muscle in his back contracts and releases sinuously, and Jeremy stares.

“I – you – no-” he stammers, his cheeks burning, but he stops himself when he realises Jean is laughing and sliding off the end of the bed. He’s just joking. Jeremy clears his throat and draws the duvet up to his chin. Jean’s tracksuit pants are slung low on his lean hips, and he ruffles a hand through his hair as he looks around blankly for a shirt to wear.

A moment later, the bedroom door swings open and Iris bounds in. She’s wearing a Santa hat and a hideous Christmas jumper, and her arms are full of more festively-patterned material. Her brow rises as she takes in the view of shirtless Jean. “_Hello_ Christmas,” she says, grinning the way Jeremy does when he’s being mischievous. She almost reluctantly hands Jean a Christmas jumper, like she’s disappointed in herself for encouraging him to cover up.

Jean’s face does that thing he does where he almost smiles, but doesn’t, just hinting at it with his eyes. He shrugs into the jumper without complaint, which surprises Jeremy. Maybe Jean really_ is_ comfortable with his family.

Iris throws a jumper at Jeremy too – it hits him in the face, and he hears his sister scoff, “And he calls himself an _athlete,”_ as she leaves the room. “Presents in five!” she shouts from the staircase.

Unlike in Hawaii, Huntsville winters are cold, and Adele has never been able to let go of ugly Christmas sweaters, and hot cocoa and warm croissants with jam for breakfast. She always cranks the air conditioner overnight so they can enjoy a cold morning, then the extended family begins to arrive around lunch time for more celebrations. Ike and Adele’s prime position on the beach means all the family can be out of the house, frolicking by the ocean and the young kids don’t get bored easily once the thrill of their new presents wears off.

After presents and breakfast, the greater Knox family starts to arrive, and Jeremy spends the morning stressing about how much this all is for Jean to cope with, until he actually takes a good look at him – dryly making Uncle Tom almost cry with laughter – and realises that Jean is _fine._ He's not who he was six months ago – and yeah, he’s not perfect, but now he smiles, he makes jokes, he has a healthy tan, he doesn’t tense up like a wild animal every time someone drifts a little too close. Jeremy almost wants to burst with pride.

All the girl cousins are completely enamoured with the handsome Frenchman, naturally. Jeremy is particularly reminded of the triplets from Beauty and the Beast; his three teenage cousins, Annabel, Tia and Ruby titter like little birds every time Jean speaks, and they follow him around like talkative shadows. They genuinely squeal when Jean emerges for beach football in USC shorts, a Santa hat, and no shirt. Jeremy whistles at him through his teeth, teasing, and Jean’s aggravating right eyebrow just rises slowly, like a challenge.

Time honoured, and often genuinely violent – Jeremy broke his wrist one year and his middle school Exy coach wanted to kill him – the Knox family Christmas beach football game is a permanent feature of the day every year. The aunties usually abstain, preferring the beach lounges, family gossip, and cheese platters with white wine over the sweaty, rough game and the extreme competitiveness of the uncles. Adele is always the unofficial referee, and the more wines she has, the more whimsical her decisions become. Jean is a complete natural with a pigskin, as Jeremy suspects he is with all sports, and they end up on opposing teams.

“Can’t have two elite athletes on one team,” Uncle Gerard (Adele’s side of the family, resident rule-stickler) says.

Jeremy agrees with this logic...at least until Jean tackles him to the sand and all the wind is knocked out him. He gasps, feeling like he’s been hit by a freight train, and Jean sits back on his heels, straddled across Jeremy’s thighs, laughing unapologetically. The corners of his eyes crinkle in the way they only do when he’s _truly_ laughing or smiling, and Jeremy is suddenly breathless for a whole different set of reasons.

The girls break out into chirps like excitable little birds and Iris, with her blasted polaroid camera, takes a snap of Jeremy trying not to cough up a lung. He flips her off and Adele calls a penalty imperiously from her lounge, because ‘Jeremy should be nicer to his sister.’

Jean helps him up, and they bump fists the way they would do with their racquets in a game; tiny gestures that mean _solidarity, _and _brotherhood_, and _sorry I just annihilated you like an unsupervised child annihilates junk food._

They wile away the hours in this vein; drinks, more food than even the Mongolian hordes could have put away, and beach activities, until the sun goes down and Jeremy finds himself thinking that it has to be close to midnight. The air is warm and balmy, and smells of salt and summer, and the moonlight lays a glittering path to the horizon on the surface of the water. Gentle waves press against the sand lovingly, making the kind of sound that would lull you into beautiful dreams if you’d let it. They are sitting side-by-side on the sand, everyone else having either gone home or inside, and there is beauty all around; the kind people write about, and yet, all Jeremy can look at, hear, see, _long for, _is Jean.

It’s a sudden, unanticipated – though not _totally _unexpected – feeling, like when you spend all day in the knowledge that you’ve forgotten a thought, and then it suddenly comes to you when you are least looking for it.

“Right,” Jean says from beside him, as if suddenly deciding something, and then he launches himself in the direction of the ocean. He drops his Santa hat just short of the water, and Jeremy watches as he dives beneath the softly rolling waves. For a time, nothing happens, and then Jean bobs back to the surface, pressing his hair back with his palms and looking back over his shoulder to Jeremy.

“_Paradis,”_ he calls back to Jeremy, who finds his legs carrying him into the sea. He briefly sympathises with ocean-faring men entrapped by sirens.

The placid waves buffet Jeremy closer to Jean, but his feet were already kind of taking him in that direction anyway. His heart is drumming, but it’s not an anxious kind of beating – it has a more...exhilarated feel to it. Midnight is their safe hours, the time when Jean is most expressive, most talkative, most open. Midnight is when they talk in the darkness of their dorm room. Midnight is when, once, Jeremy touched the knuckles of one of Jean’s hands as they talked, and wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

He wonders still now. It’s an urge that’s never gone away, despite Jeremy’s best attempts to quash it, to beat it down, to ignore it into oblivion. He _can’t_ have feelings for Jean, not after the ordeal of Riko. How could he ever be sure that Jean was not just doing what he had to do to survive another captain?

In the midst of Jeremy’s internal battle, Jean steps closer to him, trailing his fingertips along the surface of the water idly. The moonlight is sharp on the angles of his cheekbones, and Jeremy watches the shadow of his trachea bob as he swallows. His grey eyes are dark in this light, but at a certain angle, the moonlight makes them look translucent, like frosted glass. Jeremy likes to think he has learned the language of Jean’s eyes by now, the unspoken words of his micro-expressions, but he doesn’t understand the strange look on Jean’s face now at all.

Overwhelmed by the sound of his own heart in his ears, Jeremy sinks beneath the waters’ surface and listens to the gentle, muffled noises of the ocean around him. When he emerges, pushing his wet hair back and blinking salty water from eyes, Jean is in the same place, watching him thoughtfully.

Jean’s hand finds Jeremy’s cheek, his thumb roughly grazing across skin, and Jeremy feels his chin tilting upwards – but then there is the sound of the back door creaking open, and Adele’s voice calling to them in the darkness that they’ll catch their deaths out there swimming in the middle of the night. Jeremy moves away, and stays out of arm’s reach, and when they finally do go to sleep, Jean does so with his face to the wall, a carefully curated foot of space between them. Jeremy lays awake for hours after that, staring at the ceiling.

* * *

Alvarez’s birthday is a huge fuss every year, literally because of who she is as a person. That it also falls on New Year's Eve, plays no small part in her grandiose sense of party requirements. This year, they go to _Secret Garden_; an athletes’ haunt, the kind of club where you can dance and get drunk, but there’s a bit less of the rife party drugs than other places because so many of the patrons are on athletic scholarships they can’t afford to lose.

Jeremy is uncharacteristically quiet in the taxi to the club; he can feel himself being awkward and distant, but can’t seem to stop it, despite Jean’s emotive brows pulling together in confusion every time he looks at Jeremy.

His sense of edginess had been completely exacerbated when Jean was entirely _normal _with him on Boxing Day, aside from the lack of small moments of flirting that Jeremy now realised had somehow crept into their relationship over time. There were no sly innuendos meant to make Jeremy choke and blush, no occasions of tiny physical affections, and the simmering heat has gone out of his eyes when he looks at Jeremy. It's just Jean, as he had been in the interim of getting comfortable with Jeremy and arriving at USC.

And then there is that bloody magazine. Adele bought them a copy each, looking very pleased with herself and completely missing the way Jeremy’s heart stops in an uncomfortably tight contraction as he looks at it. Exy Magazine prints Jean’s quote on the front cover – _Exy's 3rd Son Announces His Dramatic Emancipation From Edgar Allan; “Call it a phoenix rising from the f****** ashes” -_ with the cover being a photo of him from the Edgar Allan game. It’s an incredible shot, Jeremy thinks, taking it in, in all its glorious details, his throat dryer than a desert summer. Jean’s striker mark is sprawled on the court, his face a picture of devastation at Jean’s miraculous half-court goal, and Jean is standing over him, his long arms extended to either side like in Michael Jordan’s famed _Wings_ portrait. In one hand, he holds his racquet, in the other his helmet. His palms are turned skyward, like he is calling the Ravens from the rafters to destroy them himself. On his face is a sharp, savage smile that is in equal parts terrifying and _sexy. _In the background, Jeremy can see various, slightly blurry Trojans celebrating wildly – himself, pinned against the plexiglass by the Ravens’ defensive dealer, Alvarez leaping a foot in the air.

Jeremy runs his hand over the magazine cover, and thinks, _I would die for this photographer. _He lingers over Jean’s face, and he thinks, _I really fucking love him. _

Then he flips to the editorial, and the picture is of him and Jean hugging in the moments after the win, with Jean easily holding Jeremy in his arms and their faces close together, and his heart sinks so fast he’s not sure he ever had one to begin with. How could anyone look at this picture and not see Jeremy’s feelings? They’re written all over his bloody face.

It has been on his mind ever since. The streets of California slip by as the taxi heads for _Secret Garden, _but Jeremy’s stare out the window is blank. He can’t _blame_ Jean for being so platonic in these last few days, when Jeremy has been giving off very clear signals about space, but inside he’s just so conflicted. He can’t have feelings for Jean. But he does.

But he _can’t._

They slip into the club together at a careful, arms’ length distance, and at least in here with the pumping bass and the noise and press of people, the silence between them doesn’t feel quite so _loud_.

Caro is the first to spot them and literally throws himself at Jean, screeching at an inhuman pitch. Jeremy winces, because Jean is so stiff and clearly uncomfortable, but then he relaxes into the embrace and Jeremy has to look away. He allows Laila and Alvarez to engulf him, and holds onto Laila, his face in the curve of her shoulder for a second too long, because when he pulls away, her expression is suspicious. 

“You look tired,” she says, which is Laila for ‘are you okay?’

“All good, just a long flight,” Jeremy says with a shrug. “Happy birthday maniac.” He sweeps Alvarez up and whirls her around.

“To the bar!” Alvarez points, and taps Jeremy on the top of the head. “Shots!”

After his Alvarez-mandated shot, Jeremy gets a beer and takes a sip, his face still scrunched up with the after effects of the tequila. As the burn recedes, Laila turns next to him, one elbow leaning on the bar and her legs crossed at the ankles. She shoos Alvarez away.

“I’ll come dance soon, love,” she says in response to Sara’s wheedling. “I’m wearing white and this drink is red – I need to finish it so I don’t wear it.”

Alvarez makes a ‘fair call’ expression, then blows Laila a kiss and slinks off with a few of their other teammates. Jeremy can feel Laila’s intent gaze on him, but he can’t stop his eyes from finding Jean in the crowd – he's just so _tall, _and his fine-angled French features are anything but ordinary.

“Laila,” Jeremy sighs. “I’m having déjà vu. I _hate_ it when you look at me like that.” He drains half his beer in one go.

“Are you going to do something about it?” Laila asks. Her brow arches in such a superior, knowing way that Jeremy has to fight to keep anything revealing from reaching his face.

“About what?” Jeremy replies, tone innocent.

Laila’s gaze is shrewd; she’s practically burning holes in his temple. “That. _Him.” _She jerks her chin in the direction of Jean. “The way you _look_ at him. God, Jere. You’re literally _pining - _I’ve never seen that outside a book, or movie.”

“Am not,” Jeremy protests feebly. He’s so _tired._

“Jeremy,” is all Laila says, disappointed.

Uncomfortable, like tiny needles are prickling under every inch of his skin, Jeremy downs his beer and turns to order another. Laila stays beside him, but she strikes up a conversation with a guy Jeremy thinks he vaguely recognises as being on USC’s swim team. A short, dark-haired girl to Jeremy’s left waves a bill in front of him.

“Sorry, can you order a beer for me too please? I keep getting missed - ” she breaks off in a laugh, “- short people problems you know? Well no, I guess you probably don’t.” Her eyes slowly traverse Jeremy’s form from head to toe. 

Jeremy orders her a drink and waves off her money. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Andrea,” she says, with an easy smile, and Jeremy introduces himself too. Over the top of her head, he sees Jean near the edge of the dancefloor, talking to a tall, willowy blonde. To his surprise, Jean actually smiles, charmingly, and Jeremy can tell by the way he’s shaping words that he’s speaking French to her. It’s as close to overt flirting as Jean will ever be. Jeremy swallows dryly.

As midnight approaches, Jeremy tries to soothe the parched, brittle feeling in his throat with drinks, and after a couple of beers he switches to vodka sodas. They taste like unspoken words and shame, but they seem to do the trick quicker than the beer.

He dances with Alvarez and Laila, wingman's Ricky with a gorgeous girl from the USC track team, does more shots with Caro, and all the while, studiously avoids Jean. He doesn’t even _want_ to avoid him – in fact, he _misses_ him chronically, and wants to hear his voice and make him laugh and – he just kind of feels like he_ has_ to avoid him at this point. There’s a nagging feeling in the base of his skull that says that he really messed things up by pulling away from Jean on the beach.

The girl Andrea is a nice distraction though; she periodically comes back to talk to him, and introduces her friends amongst the Trojans, until everyone is intermingled and dispersed across the club. She’s keen, Jeremy can tell; the more they both drink, the more flirtatious touches happen, the more they lean close to talk, and the more Laila scowls at him.

As the _Secret Garden_ patrons start a chanting countdown to midnight around them, Jeremy’s gaze slides over Andrea’s shoulder while she talks, and, as they always seem to do, his eyes find Jean across the room. The appallingly beautiful blonde Jean has been talking to is rising up on her tip-toes, her hands pulling him down into a kiss by the collar of his shirt. Jean is momentarily still, before his stance relaxes and his hands slide around to the small of her back. Jeremy’s heart simultaneously drops out through the bottom of his ribcage and takes off in an uncomfortable tachycardic rhythm.

“I want to kiss you,” he says to Andrea, interrupting her mid-sentence. She looks fleetingly shocked, then thrilled, and suddenly her mouth is open beneath Jeremy’s. Their tongues slide, and Jeremy winds his arms around her waist. She’s soft and small against him, the complete antithesis of the last time he was close enough to someone to kiss them.

_She’s not Jean though,_ his brain thinks snidely, and Jeremy opens his eyes as he and Andrea kiss, looking at Jean again before he can stop himself. And when Jean is suddenly looking back at him, Jeremy feels like his heart disappears from his chest altogether, and all the air leaves his lungs. They’re both still kissing the girls, the eye contact intense, unwavering, and Jeremy thinks he should probably close his eyes, but he just can’t seem to make that command reach his eyelids. The way Jean’s lips move is poetry in motion. The bass pounds in time with his heart. Jeremy feels something curl, dark and desirous, in his gut and it has naught to do with this girl beneath his hands.

All around them, people cheer in midnight, wishing each other Happy New Year – but Jeremy’s never felt further from happy.

* * *

Jeremy isn’t really one for casual sex, but he has to do _something_ to get his mind off Jean. Of course, one of the least ideal outcomes of bringing home the girl from the club, is Jean walking in on them mid-throes. Jeremy has never seen Jean even come close to blushing, and yet, a hint of a rose flush seems to be creeping over his high cheekbones.

“What the fuck?” Andrea says, as if Jeremy’s body isn’t shielding her from sight anyway.

As Jeremy looks at Jean over his shoulder, he sees his trachea bob as he swallows.

“Right,” Jean says, his voice quieter and hoarser than Jeremy has ever heard it, and then he turns on his heel and is gone, the door to their room clicking shut with a quiet violence and finality and that makes Jeremy wince.

The word echoes in the silence of the empty place, in the cavern of Jeremy’s chest.

_Right._


	5. but each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If we had to sparknotes this bitch: it's about the YEARNING, and the HANDS.

_Beep. Beep._

_You have reached the voicemail of;_

“Jean Moreau.”

_Please leave a message after the tone. Beep._

“Jean. It’s me. Call me back. I just – I just need to know you’re somewhere safe.”

Laila digs at her ice cream pensively with the little plastic blue spoon-type thing provided. Jeremy ends the call on his phone, but he continues to hold the device in his hand, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. Just in case he calls back. His own ice cream is a forgotten, melted mess in its cup, and Sara looks at it forlornly.

“You swear neither of you have seen him?” Jeremy asks, swinging his head between the girls to look at them each in turn. Then he stands and begins to pace. Even the noises of the foreshore and the ocean can’t calm his nerves, or stop him from being the bundle of too-shallow breaths and too-fast heart beating he has been for four days now.

_God, _he thinks_, four fucking days_. Jeremy keeps finding himself with his jaw clenched so hard he worries about cracking a tooth. No one has seen hide nor hair of Jean since that disastrous New Years’ Eve, and they are all sick with worry. Jean may be friendly with and have fun with the other Trojans (to the extent of Jean’s idea of ‘friendly’), but the only people he would ever go to if he was upset or angry are sitting on the foreshore wall together now, looking like the start of every early-2000’s ballad music video ever made.

“Of course not,” Laila says, her voice lacking any of the affront it probably would normally contain in the face of such a dumb question.

“Yeah, you think I’d let you drive me insane with your pacing like this if I knew where he was?” Alvarez says, but there’s no sting in it.

Great, Jeremy thinks, he’s so pathetic even the girls pity him. He hits his speed dial code for Jean and raises his phone to his ear again.

_Beep. Beep._

_You have reached the voicemail of;_

“Jean Moreau.”

_Please leave a message after the tone. Beep._

“Jean. Please. At least send us a text.” Jeremy hangs up. He shoves his phone into the pocket of his jeans, and runs his hands through his hair. “Should we call the police?” he asks the girls. Sara has shifted closer to Laila, and is gently rubbing the back of her neck under her hair.

“A tad extreme?” Laila suggests gently, at the same time as Alvarez snorts in pure derision.

And yeah, Jeremy gets it. Involving police would be a _horrific_ idea for Jean, whose entire well-being relies on making money and keeping a low profile. He just doesn’t know what to do, and is throwing out every idea he’s ever had. The nagging, underlying feeling he gets though, is that it isn’t really like Jean is missing – he is, but it smacks of purpose and intent – Jean doesn’t _want _to be found.

* * *

Jeremy is sitting in bed with his laptop on his thighs, warm and humming gently - a small and familiar comfort. He’s wearing a towel like a turban over his wet hair, and it’s this sight that stops Laila dead in her tracks when she bursts through his door. Jeremy looks up at her pointedly, and when her mouth remains slack and she says nothing, he clears his throat impatiently. The door creaks as it slowly closes itself behind her.

Jeremy clicks his tongue in annoyance and says, “Can I help you, Laila?” when she still makes no move to either enter the room further or speak.

“Oh – oh yeah, I just -” she clears her throat, “You just look ridiculous right now.” She breaks into a little giggle, and for the first time in days, Jeremy feels a hint of a smile touch the corners of his mouth.

With the air in the room feeling a little less heavy, Laila comes over to the bed and flops herself onto it sideways, her legs hanging off the edge. She hooks the end of her index finger under the elastic band of his fluffy sock, pulls and releases, and he kicks out at her in irritation while she laughs.

“What do you _want_, other than to annoy me?” Jeremy stabs at the keys of the laptop harder than he probably intends.

“What are you working on?”

Jeremy sighs. “I’m answering the dozens of emails I’ve been ignoring for days.” When Laila waits expectantly, he adds, “And trying not to have a good old-fashioned aneurysm.”

Laila stretches, arching her back off the bed like a cat, before relaxing again. “He’ll turn up,” she says cheerfully, but there’s a rasp in her voice that suggests she’s a little worried. Hence the unannounced visit, Jeremy muses – she wants to make sure he doesn’t lose days to the insomniac vortex of worry and unchanging set of four walls. Or, like, drown himself in Jean’s shampoo maybe.

“What time is it?”

“Uh, one AM,” Jeremy says, squinting at the time in the bottom right corner of his laptop screen to confirm. He rubs his eyes.

“We should be asleep.”

“I don’t think I can sleep,” Jeremy admits. His heart is beating too fast, his mind ticking over constantly. He’s not an anxious person usually, but this...this feels like _that. _

“I’ll stay with you,” Laila says, shrugging like it’s not a big deal. She gets up on her knees and wriggles her way under the covers, in between Jeremy and the wall. Jeremy closes his laptop and puts it on the desk, and then slides down into the nook of Laila’s shoulder. She lightly scratches her nails across the back of his neck.

“Alvarez?” he asks.

Laila snorts. “Babe, I don’t think she has anything to worry about if we share a bed for the night.” She raises a predictive eyebrow though, looking at the door. “And yet...”

The door bursts open and Sara comes spilling in, a tangle of limbs and noise, where she was clearly intending to be quiet and sneaky. 

Jeremy shivers. “That was creepy, Dermott.”

Alvarez switches the overhead light off and the bedside lamp on, then bumbles over and makes herself at home in Jean’s bed. She grins over at them, all white teeth in the gloaming. “Slumber partyyyy!”

Laila giggles, but Jeremy can’t bring himself to laugh, and Alvarez’s expression drops into a frown. “What’s up Germ?” she asks.

Jeremy sighs. Laila is still rubbing the back of his neck gently, which normally turns him into a boneless pile of goo, but he still can’t relax. “My chest is tight, I can’t sleep, and I can’t take a deep breath. I feel like I’m going to die.”

Alvarez is silent for a minute, before bursting out into peals of laughter; she clutches her chest as she wheezes for air. Jeremy crosses his arms over his chest and fixes her with his bitchiest expression, waiting for her to finish. When she finally does, and sits up, she’s wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. And then, when she eventually has enough breath back to speak, she says; “You’re not going to die - you’re _in love_ with him, you idiot. You’re having anxiety because you haven’t heard from him and you two have been attached at the hip since the first day he arrived here.”

“I’m not...” Jeremy starts to protest weakly, but he trails off because he _is_. And both the girls know it. Alvarez crows in triumph, the same way she does when she beats Laila in obscure sports trivia.

“I hate you both,” he says, and leans over to switch the lamp off.

Laila wraps him up in her arms, her lips close to his ear. _“_You are his Achilles’ heel_,”_ she whispers, and in the darkness of the room her words bleed straight into the empty places in Jeremy’s heart. “He’s just licking his wounds.”

Vaguely, the mention of Achilles jolts some kind of knowledge in Jeremy, the thread of a strand of a memory, but pure exhaustion takes him to sleep before he can pull and unravel it.

* * *

In the library, Jeremy finds himself having no more success with his homework than he did in the dorms – he moved because he really needs to get an essay finished for one of his classes, but he kept finding himself pottering fretfully about the dorm instead of doing any actual work. Now, with his laptop set up and journals and textbooks spread around him, the environment is better but he’s still completely zoned out. It’s very possible – actually almost undeniable – that he’s read the same sentence four dozen times over and got absolutely nowhere with the essay.

He’s staring at the Ancient Greek shelf section, thinking about Laila’s words, when it hits him like a bolt from the blue. _Fucking Achilles_, he thinks, Jean’s exquisitely crafted French features in his mind’s eye, _and fucking Patroclus. _He knocks several books off the table and perhaps permanently bruises his knee in his haste to get up, and a girl with a quizzical brow at a nearby table shoots him a suitably quizzical look. His fingertips run across the spines of the books until he finds the one he wants, and the pages that he wants. There it is. A love story spilled in ink across thousands of words, with a subtlety that resonates so deeply in the heart of Jeremy that he could feel himself vibrate with it. This is _them_, this is the reason Jean called him _philtatos_. This is a love story told in small moments of healing, in knowing the cadence of each other’s voice. It’s Jeremy knowing the slant of Jean’s mouth when he’s upset, and the curve of it when he’s happy. It’s the burning in his bones whenever Jean touches him, or is close enough to touch, like a fever in the marrow of him. It’s a love story that never has to say it’s a love story, it just has to say _Achilles and Patroclus, Patroclus and Achilles. _

Heart pounding like a war drum, Jeremy unlocks his phone and stares at his message thread with Jean. The last four messages are from him, with no response from Jean.

_Jean, please call me back, I can explain. _

_At least text one of us so we know you’re safe. _

_I know I fucked it all up, please just call me back so we can talk! _

And finally, the message he just frantically typed when he realised;

_I figured out what it means. ‘Philtatos’. I’ve been an idiot. You’re mine too. Come home soon. _

* * *

“Knox, stay back a minute, would you?” Rhemann says to Jeremy after training, over the heads of the rest of the team as they mill about and leave the locker room. Their chatter is hushed and a bit secretive, as it has been for days; everyone talking, but no one ballsy enough to come out and ask Jeremy where Jean is. Caro is one of the last to leave; Laila grabs him by the collar and Jeremy hears her scolding him for trying to eavesdrop as she drags him out.

Jeremy closes the locker room door when all of his teammates have left, and goes into Rhemann’s office. The coach is sitting at the desk, tapping a pen against his desk in a sharp, staccato rhythm. Everything about Rhemann is sharp; the angles of his face, the tips of his dark moustache, the neat cut of his hair, the shark-like look in his eye. Normally, Jeremy feels very comfortable with Rhemann and his dry, dark humour, but right now he feels like he’s paddling into a Teahupo’o bonecrusher, purely based on the slant of Rhemann’s mouth.

“Sit down,” Coach says, and Jeremy does exactly that. “Have you heard anything?”

Jeremy shakes his head. His throat is dry – every time he tries to swallow his heartbeat it’s raw, and painful.

“Well I have,” Rhemann says, after a pensive pause, and Jeremy’s heart stops in his chest entirely. Rhemann slides his phone across the desk, and Jeremy leans over it. There is only one word in the message thread;

_Safe._

He sits back in his chair with a sigh of something like relief, and Rhemann takes back his phone. It's classic Jean, never using any more words than the absolute necessity to get his meaning across.

“Now I don’t know what’s happened,” Rhemann begins slowly, and as Jeremy opens his mouth to speak, he holds up a hand to silence him. “And I don’t _want_ to know. But Moreau is the best backliner in this damn country, and frankly, we need him to win a championship.”

Jeremy hangs his head, nodding. He’s not ashamed to agree with Rhemann – Caro is a raw talent, not quite ready for the expectations of a championship team, and Alvarez and Laila needed a big body and a calm head to complement their defence. What he is ashamed of, is that he himself is the reason they are having this conversation.

“Do you know where he is, Coach?”

Rhemann shakes his head. Some of the acuity has left his expression, but his eyes still remind Jeremy of a great white as they lazily track across his face. “No. Unfortunately I have to trust he’ll be back before the season resumes. And that you’ll do whatever you have to do to fix it. I want my team healthy, happy and focussed. Understood?” There is finality and dismissal in Rhemann’s tone.

“Yes coach,” Jeremy says, standing. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

“Knox,” Rhemann says again. Jeremy stays standing, and Rhemann taps his fingertip thoughtfully on the wood surface of his desk. “Jeremy. All I will say is this; I know a young man who is completely unreconciled to his own feelings when I see one. Just… trust yourself a little more, okay? You’ve got good instincts.” He regards Jeremy and then waves a dismissive hand.” Now get out.”

Jeremy is still for a moment, and then turns abruptly, leaving before Rhemann can say anything else that inexplicably makes him want to cry. His hand finds his phone in his pocket and he checks it on his way out – it's a message from Laila saying that a bunch of the team are waiting outside the stadium for him, because they’re going out for dinner.

When he gets outside, they’re all in various states of recline on the stairs; Alvarez leaning back on her elbows, Laila sitting primly one step above, Caro fully sprawled, with his hands behind his head and his sunglasses on, despite the overcast sky. Others mill about too, waiting for dinner; Ricky, and a few of the junior offensive players.

“Your shoelace is undone,” Caro says, looking at Jeremy’s feet, and then up at him. The corners of his mouth are turned down unhappily; without Jean to follow around he’s like Peter Pan’s shadow – untethered, adrift.

Jeremy bends to re-tie it, and in the corner of his vision, Alvarez stands up suddenly.

“Jeremy... isn’t that Jean’s car?”

Everything happens in slow motion after that. Jeremy rises as the sleek, gunmetal grey beast peels into the parking lot, the snarl of its engine drowning out all other noise. Jeremy knows the other Trojans are standing to attention around him, but he can’t look away to confirm. The driver door opens and a head emerges first, hood pulled up, followed by broad shoulders which look even more defined than usual in the leather jacket he wears over his hoodie. He slams the car door shut, and Jeremy sees every inch of him in slow-motion, high-definition; his hand coming away from the door, the sharp, glass-cutting angle of his jaw as he looks up, his grey eyes finding only Jeremy. The weight of his gaze is almost too much to bear, every step he takes seems to last a thousand years, but he looks _so good_ that Jeremy can’t breathe.

The sound of the Trojans murmuring is completely drowned out by the roar in his ears, until Jean reaches him and Jeremy turns. Jean crowds him, their faces close together, and his grey eyes searching Jeremy’s. His chest is too tight, he _can’t breathe_, and Jean towers over him, and then the noise in his head goes completely silent, save for the _thud_ of his heart.

“I got your text,” Jean says.

* * *

“What do you think they’re doing?” Caro asks, pushing his gnocchi around the bowl in front of him aimlessly.

Laila and Alvarez exchange meaningful looks, Ricky shrugs, and a few others murmur speculatively.

“Talking,” Laila says, ever the voice of reason amongst them.

“Fucking,” Alvarez says, at the same time as Ricky says, “Fighting.”

Caro looks absolutely scandalised, and Laila smiles thinly, which is a clear warning to everyone who could see it to _shut up and have some tact, for the love of god._

* * *

As it turned out, they were doing none of that. Jeremy watches Jean pound three generous nips of vodka in a row. They haven’t touched – in fact, Jean has barely even cast a glance over him – but Jeremy’s skin crawls with the need. They’re standing on either side of the bench in their dorm room kitchenette, the vinyl benchtop a grey ocean between them. Jean looks hollow under the eyes, and there’s a little furrow between his brows that Jeremy longs to smooth away with his thumb. All his bones beg him to move closer, to wrap himself in Jean and soothe the marrow-deep ache he’s felt in his absence.

It’s like now that Jeremy has acknowledged how he feels, he’s drowning in it, but he can’t help the sense that maybe it’s finally, finally, _finally_ safe to fall. He has to trust himself, like Coach said. He’d spent so long crushing his feelings in some misguided attempt to protect Jean, thinking that he would be saving him some great heartache, when all along, Jean had known the difference between a Riko and a Jeremy. They’d taught him the difference, his Trojans, and Rhemann, and Jeremy himself. And Jeremy knows that he’s spent all this time worried about making things worse for Jean, so blinded by his own perception that he’s never had something good for himself that he hasn’t demolished (except Exy), that it had been impossible for him to see that Jean just didn’t need the perfect thing. In his memories, he could see Jean leaving the coffee-shop girls’ number on the table instead of taking it with him, and looking at Jeremy with those sharp eyes and a thinly-veiled smile; a challenge, a hint, a truth.

They’d been meant for this, Jeremy thinks. He’s still and silent, watching Jean pace and knowing the words will come when he’s ready. Jean was nearly a god, the best backliner in the world, only kept at heel previously by a monster and now free to walk in the sunlight. Jeremy had forgotten for a minute that all living things grow when faced with the sun, and nurture.

Jean clears his throat, and time teeters, stretched on a knife edge. Jeremy holds his breath.

“Do we have to talk about any of it?”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Not if you don’t want to. But I am sorry.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, nerves in tatters.

“For what?” Jean’s voice is raw.

“I have feelings for you,” Jeremy says, and Jean’s face responds like he punched him in the gut. “And instead of telling you, I lied to myself about it, thinking I was doing what is best for you.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Jean says, with a hint of his old attitude. The angle of his jaw is both finely French, as if carved by angels - as Jeremy has thought dozens of times before - and yet it belies his natural vicious streak. Jean presses both his palms against the bench, bracing his shoulders and looking directly at Jeremy.

“I know,” Jeremy says. He stares, acutely aware of the scant inch between their fingertips. He wants to slide his index finger across the gap and follow the vein that threads delicately over the bones in Jean’s hand and pulses up his forearm. “If I-” Jeremy inhales nervously, “If I loved you less, I might have found it easier to just... not meddle. To let you decide for yourself.” He doesn’t even realise what he’s said until he looks up from their hands and sees the colour in Jean’s cheeks and the muscle working in his jaw.

“If you _what?”_

Heat races up Jeremy’s neck. “Well... I love you.” Somehow, the tips of his fingers meet Jean’s. “I’m _in_ love with you.”

Jean leans over, elbows on the bench, and buries his face in his hands. His knuckles are blushed, like he’s been worrying his palms over them, or punching soft things. 

“Jean,” Jeremy says. Tentatively, he moves to stand behind Jean, and when he doesn’t react adversely, Jeremy gently runs his hands over Jean’s shoulder blades, and his fingertips along his spine. After a moment, as his touch trembles heavy in the air between them, Jeremy pitches forward and rests his forehead against Jean’s back. “Jean,” he repeats, closing his eyes, “you can have everything you want in life.”

Just like on the court, Jean is still until the moment he bursts into movement, like a big cat hunting prey, and he moves like this now; turning all of a sudden and he’s staring down at Jeremy with the most intense quicksilver eyes.

“And are you going to give it all to me?” he asks. His voice is as intense as his eyes, wavering slightly deep in his throat. His hand comes up to Jeremy’s neck, his thumb on one side of his Adam’s apple, and his fingers on the curve above his shoulder, just resting there without pressure.

Jeremy swallows hard, and he can feel his cartilage bob beneath Jean’s fingers. The corner of Jean’s mouth twitches, and his eyes track downwards over Jeremy’s lips almost against his will. Jeremy says, “If you want me to,” and he barely manages to whisper it, but it’s laden with promise all the same. Jean rests his forehead against Jeremy’s and they breathe in that promise together.

“Now?” Jean breathes, and Jeremy is already rising as he nods. They collide, lips and tongues and even teeth for a second, until they figure each other out, and then the hand on Jeremy’s neck slides up into his hair and Jeremy thinks this might be what drowning is like, except that he wants to do it _forever_. 

Jean pulls back for air and gasps it in, and a low noise escapes Jeremy’s throat at the loss of him. Jean’s forehead finds his again, and then he touches his thumb to the middle of Jeremy’s lower lip. Jeremy does what he’s wanted to do for months, and buries his hand in Jean’s soft, dark brown waves.

“_Right_,” Jean sighs, and this time it means something completely different.

* * *

Later, Jean is wide awake and arranged in a tableau of French dramatism; one forearm flung across his forehead, gaze turned up so he can see the sliver of moon through the gap in his curtains. Jeremy is fast asleep; there had been kissing, and talking, and then some more kissing, and after the emotional labour of the past four days, he was all tuckered out like a child after a birthday party. Jean himself feels no more at ease for having stayed away – not that he’s not happy now. He just feels guilty. Somehow, he has fallen in love with all these people enough to care about how his actions make them feel.

He turns his head. Small swathes of Jeremy are visible in the moonlight; a few golden curls across his forehead, the corner of his mouth, his arm sticking out over the edge of the bed. Jean sighs and looks back to the ceiling. Then he huffs and stretches out all his limbs feeling the bed shake momentarily beneath him. Then he exhales noisily and throws his legs over the edge of the bed. He drums his fingertips on the mattress for a moment, before he decides and gets up.

Jean kneels next to Jeremy’s bed, his bare knees cold on the hardwood. He touches his fingers lightly to the inside of Jeremy’s wrist, where a blue vein beats with a soft rhythm. Jeremy jerks awake; adorable, confused, and then he smiles with the fondness that only someone who has just been in the sweet warmth of deep sleep can.

“May I?” Jean gestures vaguely between them, and Jeremy nods eagerly, sliding himself across the bed towards the wall until there’s room for Jean. Jeremy curls around him, chest against Jean’s back, and he runs his fingers through Jean’s hair slowly, over and over.

“M’sorry,” Jeremy murmurs against the back of Jean’s neck. He shivers a little.

“Why?” Jeremy shifts his hips a little, and Jean realises. “Oh.”

“Can’t help it. You’re hot, and… in my bed.”

“Easily pleased,” Jean teases.

“No, no,” Jeremy disagrees, tugging at Jean until he rolls over to face him, and then he kisses him deeply, luxuriously, tongues sliding and hips rolling. “I’m easily _excited_.”

Jean _aches_ and _yearns_ and is all the other longing feelings mixed up in one covetous package. It’s a feeling that bloomed between his ribs early after meeting Jeremy Knox, and it never left him. If anything, it had grown; a blessed thought, the branches of it in the marrow of his bones.

And Jeremy, seemingly buoyed by the confidence of his returned feelings, knows it – the bastard. The arch of his neck, the movement of his Adam’s apple is poetry in muscle and skin, and he grins at Jean, looking at him through the fall of his lashes with an arrogance that Jean would be insulted by, where it not so plainly obvious that he wants Jeremy.

Not to be taken for a soft Regency heroine however, Jean grins right back, sharp and savage, and touches Jeremy in a way that makes him arch and gasp headily, and he snickers into the curve of Jeremy’s neck before kissing the same spot. It’s dark and warm, they need nothing but each other, and he’s French; his mouth was made for shaping exquisite sounds and exquisite kisses, and Jeremy needs to learn his lesson regarding teasing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tis fin. Come be friends with me on [tumblr](https://j--moreau.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Limited series (5 chapters), updating roughly weekly. Come be friends with me on [tumblr!](https://j--moreau.tumblr.com)


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